


Waterlily

by HGRomance



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 72,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HGRomance/pseuds/HGRomance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta’s a high school exchange student spending a year on Panem Island, a foreign land of blue coves, lilting guitar melodies, and floral-scented breezes. He thought he left his love behind in America. But after meeting a village girl with a wild side, he’s not sure where his heart belongs. Modern AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little preview of a story set for regular postings this fall. It's a special one for me. I was once an exchange student, and I've been hoping to weave such an experience into a love story for a very long time. Although there are some details that came from my own background, most of this is simply inspiration. Ultimately, this is Everlark's story, not mine.
> 
> Thank you to Chelzie, iLoVeRynMar, Court81981, and misshoneywell. And to Ro Nordmann for the pretty banner!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own THE HUNGER GAMES trilogy. It belongs to Suzanne Collins. I merely want to spend more time with her characters.

_Katniss_

I could just let the tide pull me under. The moment is perfect, the moon's rays scuttling across my arms, the taste of saltwater on my lips, and a thread of seaweed grazing the side of my breast. The waves jostle me around, practically begging me to let go. I float and glide and plop beneath the surface. I blow bubbles, then break through and suck in a mouthful of humid air. I lose myself in the sea and feel invincible.

Yes, I could let the tide take me. Or I could pretend to put up a fight, arms cutting through the water until I'm too tired to do anything else but die happy. The coral reefs are waiting for me to sink. They're waiting to catch me in a sharp, pink hug and slice me to ribbons.

In a few minutes, I could drown and be with her again. Then I could gather primroses for her, and we could smile at the significance of it and live the rest of our lives on a new type of island forever...or not. Getting into Heaven would be a challenge for someone like me. And if I even did crack the secret password and step over that threshold, my sister would be furious to see me. I had better not do it if it means getting reprimanded by her in the afterlife. Or perhaps I'll simply wait for another night.

Sigh. Life would be much more interesting as a mermaid or a piece of buried treasure.

I bob in place and glance at the foam stretching across the beach in the distance. Panem Island's cliffs and peaks are green during the day, black at night. The thin-necked silhouettes of palm trees rock in the wind, coconuts dangling like giant testicles. I laugh and then choke on the sound. _Shhh._

My body bounds forward, fighting the temptation to stay where I am. Coming back to shore, it's a harder swim than when I first dove in. The water smacks my cheeks and shoves itself into my chest. The sea wants me.

I clamber out, my nipples stiff as shells, my wet braid snaking around my neck like a collar, and the damp sand sucking at my heels and crowding between my toes. Where did I leave my nightgown?

I locate the flimsy orange slip a few feet away and shrug it over my head. Because I don't bother with a towel, the nightgown clings to my dripping curves. The ruffled hem covers my bare ass and trembles in the breeze.

The beach smells different tonight. Not like the usual sultry fragrance of tan lotion that lingers after sunset, nor like the typical scents of papaya or orchids. Instead, I'm intoxicated by melted sugar.

How odd. It's not a local scent.

Primrose would have said it's a sign that something's about to change. She always swore by things like that.

Frogs croak at me as I cross from the beach into Seam Village. Sandy hills become dirt roads. The outlines of thatched roofs, round terra-cotta shacks, and hibiscus bushes come into view. I spot Old Man Sae on his porch, the only other villager still awake besides me. The hushed curl of his guitar fills my ears with a melody, what outsiders would call "exotic" or "spicy." No lyrics, only the pluck of his instrument.

Grinning, I snap my hips gently from side to side, humming along, relishing the way the guitar sets me free. I fall into a lazy dance. If the rhythm were a little faster, I'd spin and try to turn back time.

It's late. I drag myself from the music and keep going. The windows of my uncle's cottage are open, an attempt to filter out the moist heat even though it's futile in late August. I still refuse to call the cottage home. Mama and I used to live on the east shore, but we had to leave after Primrose died. We moved here to the western side so that my uncle could keep a closer watch on us.

The house isn't very different. It still has two rooms like our old place, except these rooms are bigger. I don't have to share a bed with Mama the way I did with Primrose. I slip through the window and tiptoe across the living room, which is also the dining room, which is also part of the kitchen.

"Bedtime already?" a voice mocks behind me.

I stop in my tracks and groan inwardly. The problem isn't that I've been caught—I never care about that. It's that I'm tired. I want to go to sleep...I want to _try_ to go to sleep.

Wheeling around, I find my uncle reclining in his favorite wooden chair, what he calls The Situation Chair, his throne of damage control. He reeks of tequila, and his attitude is stuck somewhere between lucid and glazed. He taps a finger to his chin, unsurprised by my visible nakedness beneath the soaked nightgown.

His gaze slides down to my bare feet, amusement twitching at the margins of his lips. "So you left anyway. I should have known you'd be determined."

Did he really think hiding my shoes would stop me from sneaking out and doing whatever I wanted? That's funny.

But something's not right. I feel it. He isn't brooding enough. I've given him a run for his money this past year, but he looks like he might have gotten a second wind. From what?

Mosquitoes buzz around us, hunting us for blood. I've read that they have a fatal ancestor called the tracker jacker. It's extinct, but mosquitoes are enough to deal with, ravenous and vicious in their own way. They love me. One of them stings my calf, and I slap at it in the dark.

"And where have you been this fine tropical evening?" Uncle Haymitch asks. "Skinny-dipping with Finnick again?"

I roll my eyes. Haymitch enjoys judging my boyfriend. He lives to drink and make Finnick look bad, and he also doesn't understand what the handsomest boy on this island wants from a plain-featured girl like me.

It has a lot to do with how often I let Finnick fuck me. But it also has to do with mutual wounds. I have mine, and Finnick has his own to nurse. It works out for us in this way. I don't have anyone to compare him to—he's was my first, and I haven't been with anyone else—but I've shattered enough times in his arms to know he's good at sex, good at making me forget. And he understands why I'm quiet.

Sometimes it's hard to keep it all in, but I do. Even when he's pounding between my thighs, I don't lose that part of myself. I don't let go.

We're good together. I don't ask for an emotional relationship, and neither does he. Losing him forever wouldn't wound me, so it's a safe bet with him.

My uncle takes another guess. "Or were you out smoking banana leaves with your playmates?"

Jo and Tigris are my friends, not playmates. Eccentrics are underrated.

"Ahhh," he says, inspecting my face more closely. "So you were alone and untamed. That's rarely good. Once a sweetheart, now nothing but a wild thing."

I disregard the hole in my heart and raise a quizzical eyebrow. _You seem surprised._

Haymitch chuckles. "One of these days, you're going to talk to me."

I will never talk. Not again. Ever.

Not for anyone.

"I wasn't waiting up for you, you know," he says.

_Who are you kidding?_

"I wasn't," he insists.

_Why don't you give me my punishment so that I can get a head start on ignoring it?_

My uncle grunts. He likes to think he can decipher all my expressions, but he doesn't know how easy I make it on him. He doesn't see more than I want him to. No one does. No one looks hard enough because that would require special powers. Namely sensitivity.

As my warden strides over to the dining table, he says, "Matter of fact, I was reading." Rather than waste electricity, he lights a candle and tosses me a flat packet. "Have a look."

Puzzled, I pull out a stack of papers. My eyes scan the front page, then flip through the rest of the contents, confusion pinching my face and causing my nose to crinkle. There's a bunch of official-looking documents, letters addressed to Haymitch from some kind of student abroad organization.

A photo of a boy my age is clipped to the stack. My stomach swoops for no reason as I study him. He has blond hair and eyes that have dropped from the sky. His fresh face and light complexion don't belong anywhere near this island of olive-skinned locals. He's made of gold, and the rest of us may as well be made of coal.

I find a questionaire filled with handwritten answers, clearly from this boy. His penmanship is neat, stick-straight and angular. He probably lives a groomed life and makes his bed each morning.

I must be hallucinating because it's truly starting to smell like melted sugar everywhere.

I cover my trepidation with a cocky smirk of indifference and wiggle the papers at Haymitch. _And what is this supposed to be?_

"It's a relief, is what it is," he mutters. "I've got grief in one arm, and in the other, there's you bursting into uncontainable flames. This family needs a bright spot, Wild Child. Call it a change of pace. It'll be therapeutic for you and your mama to get your minds on something else."

_Please. You don't know my mind, and mama has lost hers._

"Bottom line, I'm not cutting it, and I don't have enough liquor to sustain another month of this."

_Then you shouldn't have brought us to live with you. I could have taken care of everything on my own._

Haymitch points at me. "Stop scowling. It's only for a year. He's an exchange student from District Twelve in North America—unless you're going to actually speak, close your mouth. And I said stop scowling. I know what you're thinking, but this is my house, no matter how many times you refuse to listen to me. Well, this is the deal: The boy'll be here next month when school starts. And don't argue about food. He's being sponsored, so that'll give us the funds to feed him."

This gets my attention. Resentment burns inside me that this boy can so easily provide for himself, that he comes from a nation where its citizens are fed. Meanwhile, the villagers in Panem are hungry, and children suffer from malnourishment because of it.

Haymitch has more to say. "And don't waste my time about the damn lack of space. The boy is bunking with me. "

Who said anything about lack of space? I'm not a queen. Most families on this island crowd into their homes, with multiple kids sleeping on the floor. In comparison, we have plenty of space.

Haymitch is still barking. "I pulled a lot of strings to get this for us. We're not exactly the ideal candidates for a host family, but it's done. You'll thank me later, so for the third and final time, curb the fucking scowl."

My index finger presses against the candle, and I calmly tip it over. Cursing, Haymitch stumbles forward and catches it before it hits the floor, hissing as the flame goes out and wax leaks onto his palm. "Jesus. Are you crazy?"

One small flame is nothing. It doesn't begin to compare with my level of crazy. I burden my uncle with a superior look, slick as water but rough as the tide. _I don't want your pity._

His posture droops. "Anger won't bring her back, Katniss. It's also not a good mood to swim with. It causes people to do things—self-destructive things they can't undo. Do you understand?"

I underestimated his perception, but I couldn't care less whether he suspects the real reason I went swimming. Without acknowledging him, I walk away, taking the papers with me as he issues a parting tip. "And about the wet nightgown. Do me a favor, and don't expose yourself like that in front of the boy. I know you, Wild Child."

As if the warning will do anything but provoke me.

Pure isn't an accurate enough word for what I used to be. Prude is better. Nakedness was a private thing for me until I lost my sister and gained Finnick, but that trait never made sense anyway. On our beaches, nudity is a way of life. And other more intimate things.

Mama once revealed while in the throes of despair over Papa—I lost him, too, when I was a little girl—that I'd been conceived in a secret cove. People can only get to it by boat. She reminisced about the event in detail, which I could have done without, but she no longer remembers telling me. She rarely remembers much.

Uncle Haymitch's "favor" is moot. I will dress, or _not_ dress, however I wish. If this boy from District Twelve—what kind of name is that for a country?—is uncomfortable and doesn't have the sense to look away, it's his own fault. It's not like he won't see bare bodies once he visits the ocean.

Anyway, Mama and I don't need Haymitch deciding what's best for us. I don't need some American boy to preoccupy me. I have Finnick for that.

I've had enough change to last a hundred lifetimes, and I shouldn't have to change a thing for this new boy. He'd better not expect me to or I will punch him. I will wrestle him to the ground, and I will win.

Closing the bedroom door behind me, I lean against the frame and draw a shaky breath. Mama is dreaming deeply, the mosquito net circling her narrow bed like a veil, making her resemble a fancy corpse. She never tosses or turns.

After lighting a candle, I pull back the net and kiss her forehead. I hate that she can sleep, but I'm happy that she can sleep. It's hard to say which feeling is greater.

Peeling off my soggy nightgown, I climb into my own bed and run a comb through my hair. Beads of sweat crowd between my breasts. It's a sweltering night, and I'm thirsty, but I don't want to waste drinking water.

Why did I bring the foreign exchange packet to bed with me?

I pour through it more slowly this time. What does this boy want here? What could he gain from spending a school year in a poor country? And isn't learning another language an important part of the whole thing? Everyone on Panem Island speaks English. Why would he choose a place that speaks the same language as his own?

The boy's photograph is ridiculous. No one should have a puppy smile and angular features at the same time and get away with it. His straight, white teeth suggest his family has a full refrigerator and a licensed dentist who doesn't trade his services for peacock meat. The boy's wearing a blue shirt—he's probably aware of what it does to his eyes. He's soft but sculpted. Not classically handsome like Finnick, but more unique and cute and innocent.

Innocent. I find myself anticipating the newcomer's shock when he first sets foot on the sand and sees more skin than he ever has in one place. I chuckle and then grit my teeth. _Shhh._

It's not right to laugh without her here. It isn't fair, but the boy made me do it.

His picture rips slightly as I whip to the next page. It's a short introduction to the organization, explaining how there's limited space each year, so they choose their students carefully based on applications, personal essays, and social gatherings. I guess this information is meant to reassure the host families. I'm certain that this boy was able to win his place quickly. He looks the type, self-aware of his charm and probably arrogant.

The questionnaire. It's for the host family to read. It looks like the boy had to fill it out after being accepted into the program.

_Name: Peeta Mellark._

I smirk. God. That name sounds like it came out of an oven, all fluffy and comforting.

_Q: Why are you coming to this country?_

_A: "I'm supposed to say for cultural enlightenment and expanding my horizons, right? Actually, I'm going for my dad. When he was a kid, he spent a year on Panem Island and said it was the happiest he's ever been. I want to know what he meant by that. He's told me some stuff, but I won't get it completely until I do it on my own. I'm not sure I'll get it. Not for sure. I hope I will. Hope is good place to start."_

I don't believe a word of it. Even though he's being casual, he's aiming to impress, and he's doing a fine job. But it's not real.

_"It's nice following in someone else's footsteps..."_

_"I'd like to see a sunset that doesn't belong to my side of the globe..."_

_"I can learn to swim in my country, but it's not..."_

He's very chatty. I scan the questions, pausing only for the ones that catch my eyes.

_Q: What is your favorite food?_

_A: "Bread."_

Finally, a one-word response. That he has the luxury of even having a favorite food makes me detest him.

_Q: What will you miss most when you leave home?_

_A: "Well, now that's an impossible question to answer. I honestly can't choose one thing. I don't know if anyone could."_

I could.

_"There are lots of ways to miss your life. People, places, the things you like to do..."_

Here he goes rambling again. My thumb begins to stroke his answer, but I stop myself when I realize what I'm doing.

_"What I'll miss the most are my family's bakery, my dad, and my girlfriend."_

Bakery. His life is made of food.

Another mention of his father. What about his mother?

I glance over at Mama and feel a pang. Then I glance back at the boy's handwriting and suddenly feel calm.

His girlfriend. Of course he has one, or two, or three. I wonder if she has eyes like his and if they will have a romantic farewell under the stars, with unrealistic promises and tokens of affection. And lovemaking.

The candle flicks a balmy orange glow on the wall. Mosquitoes bounce around, droning like mad while pursuing the light. I'm sticky and gray-eyed and inexplicably sad by what I've read. Sad makes me confused. Confused makes me furious. Furious makes me frustrated.

Frustrated becomes a tightness between my legs. Squirming doesn't help, nor does the wet air. I run my hands up my thighs and imagine him saying goodbye to his girlfriend, then the scene melts into another one of him saying hello to me, gazing at my nightgown, curious about everything underneath. I have his attention, and it feels so good. In my fantasy, I corrupt his boyish face and fill us both with longing, and for a moment, I'm all that exists in someone's life. I'm truly wanted. I'm loved again.

He's moving on me. I'm moving on him.

He shows me how deep I truly am. How loud I can be if I allow myself.

The gasp I release is startling and brings me back to earth. One of my fingers has found its way inside me. I'm outraged by the discovery, the almost-noise that slipped from my lips.

Without hesitation, I carry the papers over to the candle and stick them into the flame, watching as it drags across his photo, his thoughts, his very existence. The leaflets darken and curl and disappear.

Peeta Mellark's not even here yet, but already I've burned him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

_Peeta_

I swear you can't catch a break from the beauty here. As the taxi winds through a cliff road, I gawk at the bleached white sand and blue water below. The waterfalls...the coves scattered across the coastline...and the small crescent-shaped islands in the distance.

It's overwhelming. Touristy questions bottleneck in my head, but I have no one to ask because I'm pretty sure it was my talking that put Mr. Abernathy to sleep. He's slumped next to me in the back of the car, his arm slung over his eyes and his mouth a wide-open chasm.

On the way from the airport, he asked me how my flight was, and sometime between my play-by-play of the turbulence and recapping the pilot's sightseeing announcements, Mr. Abernathy began to snore. It wasn't until I glanced at the clock on the cab's center console that I realized I'd been babbling for twenty minutes straight.

My dad says that I'm the least quiet person on the planet, but he understands. We both like to joke and connect with people, which maybe stems from us being bakers. And I guess it's because—

A pair of flapping birds cuts in front of us. The cab jerks to the opposite side of the road to avoid hitting them, and Mr. Abernathy—Haymitch—wakes with a growl while the driver curses in frustration. The birds have vermilion-colored feathers. I practically smash my nose up against the window to catch another glimpse of them before they disappear.

"Mockingjays," Haymitch mutters, sitting up and wiping his eyes. "Symbolic of the island. They're as hyper and oblivious as toddlers but more appealing than jabberjays—now those are dangerous little fuckers. You get offended by foul language, American boy?"

"Um. No."

"Alcohol?"

"No."

"Titties?"

"Uh…"

"Of course you don't. You're sixteen. You don't get offended by anything with titties."

He and the driver cackle as though they frequent the same strip club or something. Embarrassed, I shift in my seat.

Haymitch slaps me hard on the back. "Well then, welcome to paradise, boy. Don't worry about local predators. Your whiteness is—you okay?"

"Yes," I croak.

"Your whiteness is a rare delicacy here, but only a few of the snakes and bugs are poisonous, so the odds are in your favor."

He has officially succeeded in shutting me up. If the rest of my host family is anything like him, I have no clue how they made the cut with my exchange organization. I also have no clue why the family wanted an exchange student in the first place. This man isn't exactly the fatherly type.

Usually students get pictures and messages from their host family before the year starts, but the Abernathy-Everdeens didn't send me anything. I learned early on from the organization that the family doesn't own a camera. Or a computer. Or a flat screen, or any television for that matter. The majority of the islanders don't.

"So what do you do in District Twelve besides hustle bagels and baguettes?" asks Haymitch.

The question actually makes me chuckle. I relax a bit, rubbing the back of my neck. "I draw. I take photographs. I'm on the wrestling team and Student Council and also the debate team. I like to—"

"Model child, eh?"

Not according to my mother. No matter what I do.

"In the questionnaire, you said you got a sweetheart back home," Haymitch prompts.

My heart twists. "Her name's Madge."

I miss her already.

"Peeta and Madge. Madge and Peeta," Haymitch sings. "How are Madge and Peeta going to last not seeing each other for a year?"

It's September. I'll be here without her until July. I reach for the chain hanging around my neck, rubbing the silver _M_ charm between my fingers. Madge has the same necklace, only with the letter _P_. We bought them before I left home.

I remember her red-rimmed eyes at the airport, her lips trembling as we kissed, her meager attempt to smile. "I'll wait for you," she said.

"Me too," I said.

I think of the note she slipped into my jeans before I boarded the plane. She told me to read it during takeoff. I did, and every once in while I read it again to keep her close.

_I love you._

That's what she wrote. In the six months we've been together, we've never said those words to each other, but her confession makes me smile. We're perfect as a couple. We have the same friends, the same overachieving goals, and we like to do the same things, and she wants me, willingly opening her arms whenever I'm near. I love her, too.

Haymitch isn't bothered that I haven't answered him. He's too busy frowning out the window as we reach a public area that looks to be a town square at the bottom of the hill, with farmer's market-style stalls and huts. They're all scattered around a squat, official looking building—kind of like a mission—painted in a light orange shade that reminds me of apricots.

A crowd is blocking the main road, which gets on the driver's nerves. He honks the horn, but no one moves.

An oddly knowing glare warps Haymitch's profile. He rolls down the window, letting in a blast of muggy air, not unlike the kind in my family's bakery. He leans half his body out the window, swatting his arm out and hollering, "Darius! Thom! Cray!"

I crane my head to check out what's going on, but all I can see are a bunch of wandering heads, a woman lugging a basket of burlap dolls, and someone else carrying…is that a lemur in that crate?

A guy approaches us and mumbles something to Haymitch that pisses him off. "Dammit, Katniss!" he barks, dropping back into his seat only to shove open his door a second later. I watch dumbly as he gets out of the taxi, then leans over and curls his finger at me. "Let's go, boy. Don't worry about your luggage. We're coming right back."

My passport is in this car. My personal memorabilia is in this car. My first edition _Extremely Compact Oxford English Dictionary_ is in this car.

I get out while asking, "Who's Katniss?"

Haymitch ignores me, striding through the chaos while I scramble to match his pace. As more people notice us, the whispers and stares increase. Everyone looks at Haymitch with an eclectic mixture of sympathy, weariness, and amusement. They study me like I'm another species.

An older woman who smells like a hard day's work hustles toward us, her face wrinkled with agitation. "Aye, Haymitch. I'm glad you're here," she says. "I couldn't stop her. I tried, but she wouldn't listen to me—"

"It's all right, Sae," Haymitch answers, framing her shoulders to calm her down. I didn't think him capable of being kindhearted and soft-spoken. It gives me hope.

"Don't be mad at her," pleads the woman named Sae. "Katniss is just a sad girl. She means well."

"Who's Katniss?" I repeat.

They both turn toward me, unsettled and unsure how to answer, as if I've forgotten my manners and said something intrusive and they don't know whether I'm telling a bad joke. I might as well have asked who farted.

Haymitch sighs. "Sorry, boy. We aren't used to people _not_ knowing her." He looks around for the source of the crowd and then points. "See that she-devil over there? That's her."

My gaze travels the length of his arm, then his finger, then across the square and lands on a girl. The sight of her steals my breath. She's leaning her whole body against a giant statue of a mockingjay. Her arms are stretched out to the sides like wings that have been pinned there for display. Her head also lolls to the side, giving the impression that she's patient and resigned, but I can tell that she's tired. Really tired.

She has full lips, generous cheeks, and her dark hair falls loosely around her shoulders. She's wearing a long skirt that swipes at the dirt and hangs low on her hips, and her top looks like a corset that's been shortened to reveal her stomach. She's a mirage, like no matter how close I try to get she'll recede. As though she's not real.

Maybe she isn't. I have to be seeing things because those can't actually be handcuffs clamped to her wrists, can they?

A chain made of small links is wrapped around the mockingjay statue, and she's tethered to the ends of them, trapped there like some kind of antiquated, timeworn puppet. I twist my head in all directions, scoping out each face. Who's done this to her? Why isn't anyone helping her?

"It's not what you think, boy," Haymitch says. "She's not being harmed. She's protesting."

I gape. "She's what?"

Haymitch doesn't answer. He scrubs the stubble on his jaw and storms toward the girl, stopping close enough to block her completely from me. He bends his head and grunts a bunch of things at her. "Where's the key?...This isn't a game...Did Finnick help you with this?...Jo or Tigris?...Who the hell do you think you're fooling?...I said, where's the goddamn key?...Tell me _right now_."

He gets silence in response.

"You're the boy from America. Peeta, yes?" The woman named Sae appraises me, then nods toward the scene and whispers, "She's not a bad girl. She really isn't. Panem raised the cost of fishing permits, and my god, they now cost a fortune. Katniss can't contain herself when it comes to anything that makes people go hungry. She wants the fee to go back down, and if we don't get that, that child won't budge until the mockingjays reach mating season."

Amazement replaces bewilderment. I've done charity work, watched my friends pass out flyers and make campus speeches for righteous causes, but I've never seen anyone my age take this kind of leap. It's—

"Pointless," Sae sighs. "This is pointless."

I feel more defensive than I should. "She's standing up for something."

"Oh, dear boy. She's _Katniss_. No one will take her seriously. They're only going to pity her because—" She stops herself from finishing.

What was she going to say? Pity the girl for what?

Sae bobs a lecturing finger. "Haymitch has told her many times: The way to get people to listen is to get them to like you, not make them angry. Look at Cray." She nods to an officer who's prowling back and forth, glaring at Katniss and Haymitch.

"This won't help any of us," Sae confides. "She's antagonizing Cray and distracting him from true criminals. He's waiting for a locksmith so he doesn't have to deal with her. This isn't…" She flattens her palms together as if in prayer and sets them against the tip of her nose. "Well, we can't blame her."

I'm confused about Haymitch's involvement in this. I sidestep Sae to get a decent view of the spectacle. Villagers shuffle their feet and watch in anticipation. Most of them are adults, but there are a few kids my age. They chuckle and smirk, but Katniss doesn't seem to care. In fact, she winks at them like they're allies—two girls in particular, one with spiky hair and the other with feline features.

Haymitch keeps up the interrogation. Katniss turns away in disinterest, and those eyes of hers lock onto mine. And they don't look away.

I want to run in the opposite direction. I want to go home.

Which is why it makes no sense when I head toward. Sae's hand reaches out to stop me. "Aye Peeta, that's not a good idea," she cautions.

It comes out automatically. "Haymitch needs help."

It's none of my business, and people might look at me like some foreigner who's butting his nose in, who's got no clue what's going on. But I'm in a new place, I'm buzzed on culture shock, and I might be coming down with something from the plane. I want to get back to the cab before the driver finds an alternate route out of this mess and then speeds off with my duffle bags—one of which contains my favorite baking apron.

And the man who's going to be my host father is surrounded by anxious faces.

And a girl named Katniss is chained up.

I can't just stand here.

After a moment's thought, Sae reluctantly lets me go. "All right, but Katniss doesn't speak, dear, so don't take it personally if she doesn't answer you."

She's incapable of speaking or she holds back by choice? Is the latter humanly possible? Who has that kind of willpower?

"She refuses to," Sae clarifies.

I'm more disappointed than surprised.

Katniss glares when she sees me threading through the crowd. She's a bird of prey, primed to capture me by the neck and swoop into the air with my limp body.

That could be glorious.

God, the tropical air must be spiked with something.

Haymitch swings around to see what Katniss is looking at. His eyes narrow in my direction. He meets me halfway and holds up his palms. "Don't get any ideas, boy."

"Like you've been making any progress? She's still in handcuffs."

"You don't know her."

"But you do, and that's not working either. You're snarling at her like she's a miscreant."

"A what?"

"A noun meaning a vicious or depraved person. The archaic definition would be a heretic or infidel."

"Boy, you got a tedious way of saying _very, very bad person_."

"No one else is lifting a finger. She's burned these people out, including that officer guy—that's what Sae said anyway, so maybe the girl needs someone who's not from around here. In Student Council, they encourage us to—"

"Oh, for crap's sake! Go ahead. This was part of the deal anyway," Haymitch mutters.

Unsure what he means by that, I open my mouth, but Haymitch strides past me and marches through the crush, disappearing—he's got to be joking!—into a cantina.

Everyone turns my way. The elderly faces. The young faces. The high school faces. The two allies who seem to know Katniss scan me from head to toe, one with unbridled curiosity, the other with distaste.

What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?

Approaching the mockingjay statue, I comb my hands through my hair and smooth over my shirt. Katniss watches all of this with an intense expression. It's either cheekiness or wrath. I have trouble deciding whether she wants to bait me or beat the hell out of me—and I wonder what I did to deserve either reaction.

As I stop in front of her, the inebriating scent of orchids swarms my olfactory system. We use a lot of imported orchids to decorate the cakes back home, but from this girl the aroma is infinitely more provocative. Up close, I discover that one of her dark locks is woven into a thin braid. My gaze traces the hourglass of her body. Her skirt billows in the breeze and taps my calf, warning me to snap out of it.

I clear my throat to the point where it sounds like I'm hacking. "It's Katniss, right?"

She stares at me. Her eyes are gray.

"I'm Peeta. My name's Peeta. You can call me, um, that. You can call me Peeta."

Or she can call me redundant.

I remember my manners, rub my palms against my jeans, and hold out my hand. Katniss quirks an eyebrow. I can almost hear her saying, _What am I supposed to do with that?_

A half-sigh, half-laugh tumbles out of my mouth. I'm certifiably stupid. She can't shake my hand if she's handcuffed.

Her stoicism is unnerving. If I don't make a dent in it, it's going to suck the marrow right out of my confidence.

"I once locked myself to my bike in protest," I blurt out.

Her, a bird of prey. Me, the helpless victim.

"I-I was ten. I was growing out of the bike, but then my parents said that it was too old and rusty to pass onto another kid. You know, someone who could use it."

She keeps staring.

"And I was sentimental, so if we weren't going to pass the bike on, why would I get rid of a relic? So I slipped my wrist through a giant padlock set around the frame...although I guess it wasn't really a protest. More like an objection."

Yeah. Still staring.

"And I guess you've been here longer than twenty min—how long have you been here?"

No answer. Of course, no answer. It was a lame anecdote anyway.

I struggle to keep my brain-to-mouth filter intact. "So you're an activist? That's, uh, commendable—cool, I mean. That's cool. Do you fish? Haymitch said you're doing this because of fishing."

The more I talk, the more focused she becomes on my mouth. And the more focused she becomes on my mouth, the more I suffer. But there's something about the way her wrists sag in the iron cuffs, how red and raw her skin is. I don't know. She's tough everywhere except there.

"Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

My voice is embarrassingly concerned. It gets her attention. She tips her chin back, eyeing me distrustfully. I could have been speaking in a different language, she seems so unaccustomed to the questions. It really hits me that I'll never get to hear her voice.

But again, I can almost hear her anyway.

_Why do you care?_

"You just…you look so sad."

It's like a curtain gets yanked to the side. The scowl disappears altogether, and her eyes fog with pain. There's a moment, a legitimate moment when we stare at each other, hiding nothing.

Too soon her features turn to granite again, and the hostility returns, even worse than before. At this point, I feel like I'm talking to dynamite.

I murmur, "Look, there's a better way to do this."

She sets her jaw.

"My father always said—"

The jaw loosens on the word _father_.

"My father always said that doing things together makes more of a difference than doing things alone."

Her expression is doubtful.

"Look around you. I'm not from here, but it seems to me that you're not the only one affected by hunger issues."

_How would you know?_

"Well, I'm not as different as I look. And if I'm right, which I kinda think I am, this isn't just about you. I don't think anyone here disagrees with you, but what you're doing? It doesn't help the cause if you isolate everyone else. It's about figuring out a way together. Is there a person who makes you feel stronger when they stand beside you?"

Another flash of pain.

"A group is louder than one person. The way people look at you, I think you can inspire them. You can spark something—if you stop thinking about yourself so much. Just ask yourself, who else are you doing this for?"

Her silver gaze falls to the ground. I have the feeling she's latched onto a particular face.

Drawing a breath, she gives a curt nod. _Okay._

At least I think that's what she means. But there's some kind of condition attached to that nod, like, _You win. For now._

I'll take what I can get. "Soooo, um, the key?"

Her sudden errant gleam takes me off guard. Slowly, suggestively, her head dips at an angle and her eyes travel down, down, down to…

Her skirt. It's somewhere hidden under her skirt. I'm supposed to slip my hands beneath her skirt.

Katniss waits with a dare on her face. We're surrounded, and my palms are melting, but I've got no choice. Ever so slightly, she sways her hips from side to side.

_Come and get it, American boy._

I'm unprepared for _Come and get it_. And if I do come and get it, will that be considered sexual harassment? Is my exchange organization going to boot me back home afterward?

I square my shoulders. My hand reaches out and pauses on the waistband of the skirt. She's cool as ever, but I'm a wreck as my fingers disappear past the elastic. Female chuckles dance somewhere behind me. A bunch of gasps and disapproving mumbles ricochet through the crowd.

My knuckles drag across her abdomen, slide over a pulse point and then breach forbidden girl territory in the form of lace-trimmed panties. My mind conjures up possible prints and shades. The air is even more humid down there, thick enough to swallow with a spoon.

The tip of my index finger locates the hard surface of the key. Its teeth are poking out of her underwear, near her bony hip. I yank out the key and unlock the handcuffs in record time.

Katniss stumbles forward. I catch her, but the instant she's steady on her feet, I rear back. The crowd exhales and claps, that Cray officer sputters into his walkie-talkie, and Haymitch materializes on the fringes, a cork lodged between his incisors. When he sees us, the cork shoots out of his mouth.

He stalks up to us and studies me like he just can't believe it. Then he chuckles. "Boy, you must be a wordsmith." He rounds on Katniss. "Don't you aim those daggers at me, Wild Child. Just because I lost my patience doesn't mean I lost my nuts along the way. You could have been arrested or fined. When we get home, I oughta use those handcuffs and shackle you to the roof!"

I freeze. The words _we_ and _home_ are red lights flashing in my head.

"Peeta." Haymitch swings an arm toward Katniss. "This, unfortunately, is my niece."

The ground tilts beneath my feet. Katniss is his niece. She's part of my host family, and when I add the word _home_ into the equation, I get it. I'm going to be living with her in the same house. For a year.

My fingers, which lingered in private places a few minutes ago, seek out the _M_ charm dangling from around my neck. Katniss and I had shared one real moment, when my words had meaning to her, but then she'd reduced that moment to a joke and a mortifyingly public encounter with her skirt.

To be fair, it wasn't like she planned it. It's not like she expected me to be the Chosen One to chart the nether regions of her panties. It could have been Haymitch. It could have been Cray. It could have been anyone.

Whatever. She still enjoyed the effect it had on me. I'm perplexed, jetlagged, and offended by the whole thing. What's more, I don't like her.

But I can be polite. Offering her a smile, I hold out my hand for the second time. "Nice to meet you, Katniss."

Her eyes travel up and down my frame. Her own hand twitches, her fingers splaying outward and then shrinking back in line, remaining at her side. She turns her back on me and sashays toward our idling cab.

My untouched hand hovers in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this guys. I know you're used to much faster postings from me, but I've got a few writing things coming up, so updates might not be as regular as I'd hoped. Even though a good amount of this story is complete, there's still proofreading and polishing to do. But I will try my best :)
> 
> Happy CF premiere day!

_Peeta_

My least favorite thing in the world is an awkward silence. Katniss is the embodiment of that. There's plenty of noise in the cab, but none of it is coming from her. I'm hyperaware of her presence and sealed lips.

Throughout the ride, my attention is torn. There's the driver's thumbs tapping the steering wheel, matching the rhythm of a Spanish guitar that loops from the speakers. And Haymitch's second round of snoring. And the breeze whipping against my face.

And the quiet girl riding shotgun. I'm in the back, directly behind her, with a view of her profile in the side mirror. At this angle, the light emphasizes her chapped lips and the freckles crowding her nose. A rogue tendril of hair beats against her cheek.

No one would call her beautiful. Everyone would call her sexy.

Each part of her feels invasive. Her legs are stretched across the vehicle, olive-skinned feet propped on the dashboard and crossed at the ankles like she owns this car. She has a high arch that reminds me of a water-slide, and her toenails are painted a balloon orange color. I wonder if her feet are ticklish like Madge's. I have a thing for feet, but my girlfriend hates when I touch hers.

My gaze flits to the side mirror again and finds a pair of magnetic gray eyes staring back at me. I glance away quickly, but I still feel her attention on me.

The driver turns up the volume, filling the taxi with pounding percussions and thrashing maracas. I've never listened to this kind of music before. It's flirtatious and energetic at the same time, and for some reason it fits to everyone's accent here, a slight but zesty Panem Island lilt that one could probably dance to. I chance another look and am relieved that Katniss is no longer interested in me. She's swaying her body to the song, and the driver joins in. It's playful, the way they synchronize their movements, shoulders thumping from side-to-side, him chuckling and a festive glint reaching her eyes. It's like watching a candid scene through a lens. It would make an amazing photograph.

I don't realize that I'm smiling until Katniss catches me in the act. Again, I look away. This girl's a crappy hostess. She doesn't have to like me—the feeling is mutual—but she could at least make me feel welcome.

 _Someone_ should make me feel welcome. Dad said that studying abroad was one of the best years of his life. I'm hopeful that my year will be the same, but I've already caught myself nibbling on my fingernails twice in agitation.

Before I came here, I had visions of what it would be like when I arrived. My host family would pick me up as one big group at the airport. They would be carrying flowers for me or a homemade "Welcome" sign or some other traditional island offering. Then they would gather me into an overwhelming and slightly humiliating communal hug while I tried not to throw up from nerves.

On the way home, they would point out the all sights and list off historical facts about Panem. They would dazzle me with culturally wise sayings that I'd be sure to carry into adulthood. The mother would be motherly. The father would be a rugged, sunburned character who couldn't wait to take me fishing. If I had a little host brother, he would ask for wrestling lessons. If I had an older host brother, he would talk nonstop about girls and insist on getting me a tattoo.

The family would ask me about myself. They would laugh at my winning jokes. They'd be happy I was here.

They would talk to me.

I may have embellished my expectations. This is what I get the one time I let my imagination divert from reality.

Two miles later, the driver's rum breath has become more apparent. Katniss stretches her arm out the window and pretends her flat palm is an airplane riding the wind. She blows kisses at an old man driving a mule cart. A group of teens in bikinis and board shorts call her name as we go by, and Katniss issues a funny, three-fingered salute to them.

The cab swerves onto a dirt road, weaving through a cluster of thatched dwellings that make up another village. Laundry lines hang in the yards. At one home, a pair of bare-footed children chase each other through flapping white sheets while a goat bleats from a pen. At another home, an elderly man plays guitar on his front porch.

When we pull in front of the house, my mouth falls open. Because it's not a house. It's a cottage.

And it's tiny.

It's painted a spicy paprika shade and hedged by tropical flowers.

And it's tiny.

After meeting Haymitch and Katniss, I expected a lopsided mailbox and weathered roof, possibly broken windows, basically general destruction. I'm glad to be wrong. It looks like someone takes care of this place.

It's got a porch like the other cottages. A seashell wind chime dangles by the door.

And it's tiny.

How do the Abernathy-Everdeens fit in there?

My throat flares. I should have traveled lighter instead of bringing that extra duffle bag. It's going to look like I own a ton of stuff, more than this entire family.

Katniss unbuckles her seatbelt, twists around, and whacks Haymitch's thigh. He jolts awake and damns God almighty.

Katniss bumps fists with the driver, whose eyes bluntly rate her ass a 9.0 while she slips out of the taxi. I can't say I blame him with the way the skirt stretches over her curves. But still, it bothers me. Her uncle's right here in the car, but the rude driver fails to disguise his interest.

Haymitch thrusts a wrinkled bill in the man's face. To my host father's credit, it does the trick getting the driver's attention and making him flush.

"I deducted five for the look," Haymitch says.

I admire the warning tone in his voice. It's the same one Coach uses on teammates treading a thin line with him. It demands respect.

The minute I follow Haymitch out of the taxi, I unleash a reflexive, "Whoa."

The heat may be mean, the cottage's size definitely shocks me, but the direct view of the ocean wipes all that away. Straight ahead, beyond another twisting road crammed with bright flowers and plants, is a slice of the coastline. The sea glitters a short walk away, and I hear the faint echo of the surf.

The sky is a watery gradient of late afternoon colors with splashes of purple and pink. I'm glad I brought my sketchpad and chalk with me.

"Boy, if your mouth drops any further, we'll have to scrape it off the ground," Haymitch remarks.

The taxi's gone, and Haymitch has collected my luggage, but I've been too busy marveling to notice. I could have been drooling for all I know.

Haymitch isn't the only one observing me. Katniss lingers by the porch, head slanted in my direction, her eyes rooting me in place.

_"Mreeooww."_

The cat breaks the moment. It slinks out of a bush, all stick legs and golden fur. It winds itself around my calf, purring contentedly. I would lean down and pet it, but the way Katniss's cheeks color as she scrutinizes me and the feline makes me rethink that.

The cat hisses at Katniss. Her forehead crinkles as if the animal's hostility hurts her feelings, but she recovers fast. She hisses back and then struts to the door, her thin braid bouncing against the rest of her loose hair. Opening the screen door, she pauses and tosses me another Sphinx-like glance. Her fingers glide over the frame, giving me one more quick view of her wrist, red from the handcuffs, before she disappears into the house.

I stare at the empty porch before remembering that Haymitch is standing next to me. He probably thinks I've never seen a sunset before, with the way I was ogling it. I force a chuckle and gesture at the sky. "Guess you guys are used to this, huh?"

He shrugs. "Hell, boy. It's nice to be reminded of what we got. Some of us—" He jerks his head toward the house "—are so focused on what we don't got."

I hate just letting subjects drop, but I'm not feeling up to asking what he means. It's too much in one day. I haven't even unpacked my toothbrush yet.

"The sunsets in District Twelve aren't like this," I say. "They're more white-orange—or cold orange. They don't have all these warm colors like here. I've seen skies like this in movies and photographs, but it's different actually looking at the real thing. My dad talked about it, and he wasn't exaggerating, but I couldn't have guessed it'd be this radiant. You see how the shades are changing so fast? Back home, the sky doesn't do that. Except for this one time, when I was a sophomore—"

"Let's go inside." Haymitch pats the back of my neck and steers me toward the house.

kpkpkpkpkp

The main rooms are joined—living room and dining room together, with an open kitchen neighboring them. That's where I'm greeted by a soft silhouette and a pair of frail hands folded over an oversized dress.

An older woman stands beside the oven, head cocked to the side, her eyes washing over me. Except I'm not really sure if she sees me. Her expression is sort of dull, half present even though she's waiting for an introduction.

She regards Haymitch with such a dependent expression, and he returns it with a caring look of his own, so different from the man I met at the airport. "Violet," he says, setting a hand on her shoulder. "This is Peeta. The boy I told you about, remember?" He glances at me. "Peeta? This is my sister, Violet."

Violet. Katniss's mother. They have same slanted eyebrows, the same petite bodies, and the same mouths.

I grin and hold out my hand. "Thank you for having me. Haymitch told me a lot about you," I lie smoothly. "He didn't say enough, though."

From the corner of my eye, I notice Haymitch blinking. But Violet—my host mother, I guess—well, her answering smile is shy and underused.

Unlike her daughter, she shakes my hand. "I'm cooking."

She seems proud of this statement, so I widen my grin. "I'm hungry."

"I hope we have enough food for you." The spot between her brows wrinkles. "You have strong arms for a short boy. You're built like a chimpanzee."

Heat creeps up my throat. Haymitch stifles a laugh.

Something's boiling in a pot on the stove. I'm unsettled by how little prep space there is and how crammed together the burners are. There's no microwave or dishwasher, but the familiar cast iron pans and manual grain mill are a relief, basically lifelines to remind me of home.

Violet glances nervously at the pot, and Haymitch takes that as a signal to leave. He guides me away while confiding, "She enjoys making the meals. It's…" He gestures aimlessly, looking for the right word. "It's relaxing for her. And don't worry about those muscles, boy. What you get on your plate'll be enough. It won't be salmon every night, but we eat more decent than most people on this island."

That, and I've got a sponsor paying for me. Neither of us brings that up.

Curtains billow from the windows in the living room. My organization wasn't joking. There's not much in the way of entertainment, though I'm grateful to see the family has a cordless phone and an old stereo—which appear to be luxuries in this place—and a chess game set up on a fold-out tray in the corner.

Haymitch mumbles as we walk through the house. "Couch for sitting. Table for eating. The Situation Chair for when I pass judgment on misbehavior—don't do anything to push me there. This is the hallway. The girls' bedroom. Bathroom for you-know-what." He gestures at a closed door where a shadow passes beneath the slit at the bottom.

The shadow has to belong to Katniss. I hear water running and wonder if she's cleaning her wrists.

"Here's where we sleep," Haymitch finishes, ushering me into the second bedroom where he drops my bags on the floor.

I do a stellar job masking my apprehension. I've got no problem sharing, but I'm wary about sharing with this man in particular. He snores. Big time. And he's not going to like finding out that I talk in my sleep.

The room has a bunk bed. I can't help smirking when I think of Haymitch trying to climb to the top.

"Don't go getting ideas, boy," he warns. "I had to trade my old bed for this thing, so I got first choice. I know it's not what you're used to."

"I didn't come here for what I'm used to," I say.

"Good," he says. "Because you're getting top bunk."

I laugh. "Are you afraid of heights?"

Creases form at the corners of his eyes. "Afraid of falling on my ass is more like it. C'mon. Let's go eat. You can mess up the room later."

Dinner is rice, some sort of pepper, and some kind of white fish. We're drinking from a gallon-sized plastic water bottle—the glasses are half full—because apparently it's not safe to drink from the tap.

My host mother still has a distanced look about her, but she's kind, and I'm starving. I relax into my chair.

Katniss appears around the corner, which immediately makes me straighten up again. Her skirt whips around her legs as she plops down next to her mother and begins to serve her.

Accepting her plate, Violet says, "Thank you, Primrose."

It's like the roof caved in. Katniss freezes. Haymitch grimaces.

It doesn't take a genius to know that asking who Primrose is would be a bad idea.

Violet doesn't seem to register that she's said anything upsetting. Katniss sucks her lips in tight, inhaling through her nostrils and curtailing her response while she moves on, filling her own plate. Haymitch checks my reaction, but I pretend to be oblivious.

Everyone becomes fixated on their food and digs in. Foreign spices snap across my tongue. The fish is a little too oily, but it melts down my throat.

The quiet is light years away from the hysteria at the Mellark family table. By now, my brothers and I are usually throwing napkin bombs at each other. Dad is smuggling scraps to our bulldog under the table. Mom is complaining about either life or me or both.

I feel bad for comparing. To make up for it, I do everything my host family does, placing my knife and fork at the exact same angles as them, drinking when they drink.

But should I wait for them to start a conversation? Should I compliment the food before I'm finished or after?

Katniss refuses to spare me a glance. I'm drawn to the way her lips move as she chews.

But then she stops. It's like she knows where my attention is.

Her gaze lifts, crosses the table, and latches onto me. I reflexively stuff the pepper into my mouth.

Her eyes widen and then twinkle right as a fireball detonates in my mouth. My own eyes hold hers, but I feel my lids pulling back in shock and my tear ducts getting ready to spill as lava floods my throat. My gums and forehead and nasal passages are scorching and just holy shit!

"How is it?" my host mother asks.

Holyfuckingshiteatingfuckinghotburningshit—

"Really good," I squeak.

"Pace yourself with the pepper, boy," Haymitch cautions around a full mouth. He leans close and whispers the rest. "It'll burn your ball-hair off."

My hand shakes as I grasp for the water. I down it in one gulp, but it's not enough to stop the pepper from incinerating my very soul.

Another glass skates toward me, inched forward by a single olive finger. I want to thank her, but Katniss is focused on her meal, so I empty her glass in seconds and blow snot into my napkin. I bat my lashes until I'm sure that I'm not going to weep from the assault.

I need to get my mind off the heat. I need words. "I-I could help with the cooking," I stutter. "I-I do it at home, but I'd like to learn something new."

Violet fidgets with her spoon. "Oh, I…I don't know. There's not much to learn."

"There's always something to learn. Mixing tastes. Preparing…" Breathing. Inhaling. Exhaling. "Storing. Preserving. Making food last."

Katniss swings her chin up. _What would you know about making food last?_

My perked ears detect the rancor in her question, and what's more, it's annoying. If there's one thing I won't let this girl judge, it's my relationship to food.

I slide her empty water glass back to its original spot beside her plate. "When I was little, and my family started the bakery, we used to live off stale bread."

Her face falls magnificently.

"It wasn't until I was twelve that we started getting regular customers and making money," I continue. "Mellarks bakes good bread, but we're mostly lucky. But even before that, we donated whatever we could to soup kitchens. My dad says no matter how little you have, there's always something left to share. Some hope to give." I pause to think about it. "I would say, when there's not as much to eat is when we learn the most about food. Also, my mouth is on fire, so I need a crash course on your spices quick."

I've been speaking to everyone, but now I speak only to Katniss. "And one more thing? My family lives fine, but we're not rolling in _that_ kind of dough. I'm not being sponsored for fun. Just in case that's what you thought."

The phrases _crash course_ and the double entendre of _dough_ all seem lost on them, which must be a cultural thing, though they seem to understand what I mean anyway. Haymitch reclines in his chair as if my words have pushed him. Violet exhibits her first lucid expression. She smiles at me in admiration. And Katniss…

Katniss does not look happy about that.

kpkpkpkpkp

Violet goes to bed, murmuring something about a headache. Haymitch works the night shift at the cantina back in the village square, and since this family doesn't have a car, he walks the two miles every day, then gets rides home from another one of the bartenders that he's friends with.

Left alone, I panic. It hits me that this house isn't mine. I have no idea how to behave. What's off limits? Can I use the oven to bake? Do I have to ask for food every time I get hungry?

I mentally criticize my duffle bags, split open and revealing my possessions. I see myself for the first time through other people's eyes—all the superfluous things that I thought I couldn't part with but now feel spoiled for bringing.

What do I need my Letterman jacket for? It's eighty percent humidity outside.

Sighing, I decide to leave it in the luggage, along with my dictionary. I'm selective, pulling out clothes, drawing tools, and framed pictures of my dad and Madge. The gut-wrencher is, I'm iPodless, phoneless, and laptopless. I have to adapt to my host family's lifestyle, and since they don't own modern devices, my exchange organization advised me not to bring any. Well, except for my camera, a vintage model that used to belong to Dad.

There's a couple of woven baskets under the bunk bed for me to store my belongings, a narrow stand-up closet that holds maybe ten shirts, and a chest at the foot of the bed.

Haymitch and I agreed: I get the closet, he gets the chest. I hang what I can, then pile the rest of my clothes into the baskets. I stash my art supplies, exchange organization packet, and notebooks for school in the empty nightstand.

My picture frames find a home beside the lamp. I sink onto the bottom bunk and stare at the images. My dad has his arm around me in the bakery, and we're holding up the first loaf I ever baked for a customer.

In the second photo, Madge is sitting on the floor of her bedroom, legs crossed, cheek balanced in her palm as she smiles at me. I remember taking that photo with my phone. We'd just officially gotten together the night before. I'd prepared a speech asking her to be my girlfriend, but by the third memorized page, she cut me off with a kiss. I like to think she did that because my words swept her away.

She burst into tears when she found out that we'd only be able to communicate through handwritten letters. "But my handwriting's terrible," she cried into my chest while I held her, promised we'd be okay with just the letters, and explained how romantic it would be.

I was told that my new school has a computer lab. I didn't want to get Madge's hopes up, so I didn't tell her about it, but maybe I'll be allowed to email her from there. Maybe I can surprise her.

The door to the room swings open, dragging me from the memory. I swerve around, surprised because I thought Haymitch had already left for work. I open my mouth.

It stays open.

Katniss has just walked in. And she's naked. Completely, totally naked.

I see legs. I see breasts. I see a triangle of hair.

I see stars.

Dark nipples swell from centers of her tits. There's a lighter patch of skin, a birthmark that's like an island itself, on her inner thigh.

My whole body reacts at the sight of her. My pulse races, and I think my lungs have collapsed. My head turns, following her as she saunters toward the closet, her hips rotating, her feet padding across the wood floor. She casts me a sidelong glance on her way.

Reflexes and common decency should have kicked in. I should have turned away politely, gentlemanly, not gawked at her like a pig. I should turn away _now_. Right _now_.

When she reaches the closet, I see the slope of her back. And an ass. A round ass that curves into her waist. She's thinner she should be, but she still has plenty to show off.

Hangers knock together as she searches through my wardrobe. She chooses one of my new shirts, a white linen button-down that my dad said would fit to the landscape and my brothers said was gay. She pulls it over her head and then fluffs out her hair. The shirt reaches mid-thigh.

She turns to me and quirks a brow. _What do you think?_

I think I have a girlfriend. I think Katniss enjoys making me feel like a fool. And I think I like her even less for it.

Fine. Two can play at this game.

I stand and level her with my eyes. Approaching her, I reach for the undone button above her collarbone, prolonging the act of slipping it through the corresponding slit, then rubbing the button between my fingers. Is it my imagination or do I hear an intake of breath?

I take a step back and challenge, "Tell me why you don't you talk, and I'll tell you exactly what I think."

Katniss's gaze skates over my face but can't settle on one spot. Once she's done that enough times, she presses her lips together in annoyance, wheels around and leaves, the tail of my shirt flapping behind her. That must be a chronic habit: walking away.

It's obvious what she wants. She wants me to want my shirt back. She wants me _come and get it._

But after what happened in the village square, when coming and getting it required my hand down her skirt, I've learned not to make the same mistake twice. I'm not going to _come and get it_ again. I'm not that stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie did so many things to my heart. Wasn't that beach kiss lovely?

_Katniss_

He doesn't ask for the shirt back. He doesn't call after me like I thought he would, nor knock on my bedroom door expecting me to hand over his property.

That night, I crush the shirt into a ball and shove it in my drawer. He won't miss it. He brought a mountain of possessions with him.

I lay in bed, my fingers skimming the contours of my belly, and list the details about him in my head. His face isn't sunburned yet. He used to live off stale bread. He once fought for the right to keep his bicycle. His words can derail a protest and steal it right out from under me. He does what he has to in front of a crowd. Also, there's this single tendril of hair that flares out at the end, away from the rest of his locks like a stubborn thing. And he defeated the odds and made my mother smile.

He's uncomfortable around me. He doesn't know what to make of me. He doesn't like me.

Not speaking for so long has given me a new kind of power. I pay closer attention to the signs. I can tell from the way his lips twitch, ready to go off on a verbal tangent, that my silence is a place he's afraid of getting stuck in.

I get a perverse satisfaction out of ambushing him. I had expected him to be more intimidated by my naked body, but he saw past the act. He saw me for who I was. Distrustful, manipulative, weak.

I hate him for it.

I've slipped too many times, almost shaking his hand, almost filling him a third glass of water when he ate that pepper. I brace myself too often, waiting to hear what's going to come out of his mouth. I'm inconsistent.

The fan whirs in the corner of the room. Mama is peaceful in her bed while I toss and turn. Huffing, I get up, return to my drawer, and retrieve the white linen shirt. It smells new rather than of his personal melted sugar scent, but I wrap myself in it anyway. After that, sleep finds me.

And when I wake up to the sun pushing through my window, I frown. I'm rested and weightless, but I don't fully trust the sensation. I cannot truly be as refreshed as I feel. Things are never that easy.

The clock tick-tocks. The mockingjays chirp outside. Everything has a voice but me.

Haymitch bangs on the door. "If you're late, I'll skin you, Wild Child!"

I haul my pillow at the door. I would have thrown the clock, but that would wake up Mama.

It's the first day of school. Although summer has passed slowly, the knowledge is a jolt to the system. I'm going to be making a public appearance with that boy.

Finnick won't be there. He graduated last year, along with Jo and Tigris. I'll be lacking support, but at least kids won't be giving me that pitying look anymore, like they did last year after I lost my sister. Now, they'll just be staring at my companion.

The whiff of fried plantains lures me from the sheets. I slip out of the boy's shirt and change into a bikini the same color as the sunset that so beguiled his goofy face yesterday, then layer the bikini with a dress. I do a sloppy job braiding my hair, but that's fine. Finnick says I look best when I'm a hot mess.

I pad into the hall, detouring to the second bedroom. I peek at the slant of light. The perfectly made bed. The strange boy, Peeta.

My boyfriend would tower over him, but that hardly matters. Peeta has other ways of standing out. His bare back faces me like a slab of ivory marble. His broad shoulders lift and sink, and his backside is concealed by gray jeans. His hands rest on his hips as he studies three t-shirts laid flat across Haymitch's bunk.

Kids here don't often fret over what to wear. And they certainly don't pay attention to what others wear. Though they might notice Peeta's wardrobe. He'd better not show up looking rich.

When he turns and sees me, wariness cramps his features. "Uh…morning."

Ignoring the look, I prance into the room, stop beside him, and review the options. He's narrowed it down to solid colors. I pluck the teal one because it's soft-looking and slightly faded. I hold it out to him, and he takes it without thinking.

"Why?" he asks, suspecting a trap.

I have trained him well to expect the bad from me.

I gesture to the shirt and then to his eyes. _It suits you._

His cheeks flare. "Oh. Thanks."

My legs can't carry me out of there fast enough. I camouflage my haste by adding a swing to my hips as I leave, knowing that he's watching me go.

After an awkward breakfast, a brief kiss planted on Mama's temple while she washes the dishes, and a warning from Haymitch that we look out for each other, I set out for the day with Peeta.

Girls stare at him. On the lane through the village. In the outdoor hallway at school. And it's no wonder. He looks like no one on this island…or _no one_ looks like _him_. We're mostly a colony of dark hair, oily skin, and dry lips. He's the blue-eyed minority.

He chokes the straps of his backpack and glances around with that wide American gaze. I see what he sees. A miniscule building. Horny peacocks prancing through the lawn, vibrating their feathers in search of mates.

We have a cinema in town, so I've seen movies set in America. High schools there have sports teams and hundreds of students in a single grade. There are clubs and dances. Students have cars and carry trays loaded with apparently disposable food. It's another universe from this one.

Peeta's head swings toward me for guidance. He shuffles his feet and licks his lips.

I'm amused. _This is not your world._ _  
_

"Yeah," he says. "I don't exactly fit in, do I?"

_That's what you agreed to._

His shy smile bothers me. "Is it cliché if I say I'm a fish out of water?"

_Fish out of water?_

"It's an idiom in District Twelve," he explains. "It means someone who's not in their own environment."

I wrinkle my nose.

"I know it's stupid, but it's all I could think of. I can't remember feeling so out of place, except for on the basketball team. I play a lot of sports, though wrestling is my favorite. Anyway, the guys in basketball are super tall, but that's also normal, so it wasn't a surprise when I made the cut and then felt like a gnome. What surprises me is when I see a guy even shorter than I am. Then it's like—"

I sigh, grab his arm, and lead him to the administration office. Mrs. Trinket's hair is a monstrosity of curls that bounce as she greets Peeta with a twenty-mile grin and a makeup job that looks like an acid trip. Then she glares at me. She's still festering over the peacock-in-the-teacher's-bathroom incident.

She subjects us to a series of twitchy hand gestures as she welcomes him to his _big big big_ day. She chirps about rules and snakes hiding in the shade and what Peeta should do in case he gets bitten during lunch.

"Just make sure that you get here before your throat closes up," she says breezily. "Once you turn purple, you're a goner."

There's no excuse for her enthusiasm. We head to class. A group of girls practically swoon over Peeta. One of them begins to trot in our direction, but my snarl winds around her ankles and fastens her in place.

Our whole grade is lumped into one classroom. Chair legs scrape across the floor as students take their seats and murmur things to each other, mostly about Peeta and me.

I'm headed to the back row when I feel a warm hand on my arm. I'm stunned by the jolt of it, so my head snaps up in outrage. He pulls back, giving me that annoyingly innocent Peeta face.

"What about sitting at the front?" he asks.

I turn and keep going, not taking him seriously.

"But shouldn't we make a good impression?"

I wheel back around and meet his eyes.

"It's just, I'm new."

I hold his gaze.

"I-I don't want to look like I'm hiding."

We fall into a staring contest. I feel dozens of pairs of eyes on us. The air is thick as syrup. Palm fronds slap one another outside the window. The overhead fan is broken.

That one tendril of hair pokes out from the rest. It's even blonder in the morning light, nearly as blinding when seen from the right angle. The tendril perches on the neckline of his teal shirt like an antagonist.

It's the shrill toll of the hour—coming from an iron bell that swings from the building's roof—that ends it. Peeta hesitates, then turns and finds an empty chair in the second row.

I retreat to the back and recline in my seat. A person can't daydream while sitting in the front. A person can't stare out the window and think about their boyfriend fucking the harsh reality out of them. A person can't stare out the window and wish they were anywhere else.

Also, Peeta's assumption puzzles me. He traveled thousands of miles to be here for a year. No one will think he's hiding because of the seat he chooses. No one will think he's unfriendly or reserved. Yet he seems so certain that hiding is a shameful thing.

My fingernail scrapes over an indentation on the surface of my desk. My gaze slices past every row, every face, and every whispered discussion that separates him from me. I stare hard at the nape of his neck and smirk when he scratches the column of skin there. _Go ahead and perch up close, American boy. It would be a mistake to stay with me anyway._

Hulking Gale Hawthorne lands in the seat beside Peeta and introduces himself. They glide into a conversation. I tune into the echo of their voices and read their lips—Peeta is a clear speaker who knows how to enunciate his words, his pronunciation crisp and easy to follow.

I've known Gale since childhood. Even though we're not friends, I don't have to work hard to translate the slant and snap of his mouth. He talks about our school and what class is like. He asks Peeta questions about himself. He cracks island jokes that Peeta certainly doesn't understand.

At first, I think I've heard wrong when Peeta asks Gale about the computer lab.

"There's a sign-up sheet for the computers," Gale answers. "But they're really strict about making use of the time since there aren't enough stations for everybody. Only research, no personal activities."

Peeta sounds defeated. "No email?"

Gale groans. "Those sites are blocked because we can't be trusted to follow the rules," he responds with sarcasm. "But there's an internet cafe on the north side of the island. It's an hour away by bus."

"An hour?"

"Getting around is rough if you don't have a car or boat. Buses make a lot of stops."

Peeta slumps in his seat. I crane my head and study his profile, how his brow dips in frustration. His hand lifts to fondle the letter _M_ that he constantly wears around his neck.

The teacher arrives. We have Cinna this year, which is the one face in the faculty that I can tolerate. After I lost Primrose, he was the only teacher who expressed how sorry he was and inquired how I was doing. He accepted the fact that I had no interest in responding.

He spots Peeta and shakes the boy's hand—everyone has done this but me—then backs up while spreading his arms. "Welcome back, tributes. We have an addition this year. This is Peeta Mellark, our exchange student from District Twelve."

Peeta's bashful but modest and friendly grin charms each person in the room. As a flood of _hellos_ greet him, envy gnaws at my gut. It occurs to me that he thrives off being integrated, and that it comes effortlessly for him.

Cinna nods. "Make me proud, class. Show Peeta a pleasant day, and try to participate so it appears like I know what I'm doing."

The class chuckles. As Cinna writes on the board, Peeta takes out a fancy orange pen. When he notices that everyone else has cheap, plain ones, he stashes his away, opting for a pencil instead.

Gale leans over to him and whispers. "So you're staying with the Abernathy-Everdeens? That's a thick net to be caught in."

"They've been great," Peeta defends. "Really great."

I pause in the act of rebraiding my hair. I hadn't known he was capable of lying.

"And Katniss?" Gale makes a sizzling noise. "Mmm, she can take one."

"One what?"

"That's what we say here about the ripe girls. The pretty ones. That they can take a hard one. What I wouldn't give to pry open that clam and steal that pearl. Though from what I heard, that pearl was already stolen by Poseidon."

Peeta's gaze flits down and back in my direction to check if I'm eavesdropping, but his eyes only reach my sandals before darting away. Unlike he did with Haymitch and Mama, he doesn't speak up for me.

kpkpkpkpkp

Each hour introduces another subject. Whenever local phrases leave Cinna's mouth, instead of pausing each time to single Peeta out, our teacher allows Gale to explain them quietly. I ponder whether I would be able to assist Peeta better, and if he would appreciate that, and what my nearness might do to the grip of his pencil.

Primrose would help Peeta in every way she could. She would be disappointed in me for the way I've been behaving. The thought produces a speck of remorse inside me.

One of our lessons is Survival. We have this subject every year. We're taught the basics of life, money, house and home, and the nature of our flora and fauna. We learn about marine life and the skills needed for fishing. How to avoid local predators—from wild mutts to poisonous nightlock. Injuries and wounds and how to heal them.

Peeta seems baffled by this topic's existence in a schoolroom.

When Gale invites him to spend lunch together, Peeta twists around to gauge my reaction first. My glower is my answer. He accepts Gale's offer.

I spend the free time with Deliah, the only other girl in school who isn't obviously imagining what the American exchange student looks like in the shower. She's peppy, the opposite of Jo and Tigris. But I like Deliah. She's content with my silence, so I'm content with her unapologetic optimism.

Peeta and I have stopped acknowledging each other. Which is why he takes off at the end of the day without me. After trading a few parting words with Gale, Peeta packs up, thanks Cinna, and rushes out of the classroom like he knows where he's going. I'm staring at the vacant doorway when Cinna calls my name.

He ushers me toward his desk, leans against it, and crosses his arms. "How are you, Katniss? Did your summer go well?"

I shrug, my default response with him.

His tawny eyes slide toward the door and back to me. "It must be a change, having someone new in your house. I noticed you and Peeta weren't sitting together."

I huff.

He chuckles. "Sometimes we're forced to make adjustments. It may seem unfair at first, but the change could be worth it. I don't want to overstep my bounds, but I'll take that risk and speak my mind because I care about you. Don't be so quick to underestimate Peeta the way people do with you."

I bite the inside of my cheek.

"We might see ourselves clearly through people who are the same. But sometimes it takes a stranger to show us what else we're capable of."

I'm not certain about that.

Cinna pats my arm. "All right. Get out of here and at least make sure Peeta gets on the right bus."

My head snaps up. Bus?

"I overheard Gale giving him directions to the north shore. No idea what Peeta wants up that way, though."

The Internet café. That must be where Peeta wants to go.

What is the hurry? Can he not live without technology for a second?

The north shore would be bus Thirteen. It's a local route, it's free to students, and it stops at the corner by school. The problem is, none of Panem's buses actually have numbered signs to indicate which one is which, but I'm sure that's something Gale forgot to mention to Peeta—and that the Internet café is closed on Mondays. I know because Jo used to work there until she got fired for looking at pictures of people fucking.

Sure enough, when I get outside, Peeta is stepping into a battered bus driven by that Puerto Rican man with a short fuse. Which means they're headed east, not north. Grunting, I sprint after the vehicle and bang on the back door. Tires skid to a halt, the door swoops open, and I hop inside.

The bus is crammed, passengers overflowing the aisle. Peeta's at the front, clutching one of the overhead bars and looking flustered. It takes me a good two stations to wedge myself through the mass of bodies and get to him. When I pop out between a pair of middle-aged ladies, I emerge beside him, my hip bumping against his.

Peeta's eyes sail past me—then do a double take. I wave grumpily.

"What—"

I jab my finger out the window. _We need to get off._

"What are you doing here?''

_This is the wrong bus._

"What do you mean?"

I point to the driver, then jerk my thumb back the way we came. My movements are spastic, but Peeta comprehends my meaning. Nevertheless, he wavers, exasperating boy that he is! I expel a weighty breath, letting my expression speak for me.

_I do plenty of wicked things, but I don't lie to people._

Peeta accepts that. He taps the driver on the shoulder. "Excuse me."

" _Que_? What?"

"Um, can you pull over please?"

"Pull over _por que_?"

"To let us out."

"No. No no no. No eh-stop here."

"But we took the wrong bus."

"My bus is no wrong bus!" the man scolds, insulted.

Peeta gulps. "I meant, the wrong route."

"Not my problem. No eh-stop here. I lose my job! Step back, both of you. No-eh stop!"

"But—"

I knock Peeta out of the way, seize the wheel, and wrench it to the right. The bus screeches across the lane and swerves onto the sandy sidewalk. An outbreak of shouts hits the roof as passengers jostle against one another.

My foot slams onto the brake. We jolt to a stop.

The driver repeatedly whacks his palm against the wheel. _"¡Malditos chicos locos! ¿Quieren matarnos a todos? ¡Salgan de mi autobús!"_

I yank on the handle. The doors flap open. I get out, landing on a narrow path bordered by island forest. Peeta stumbles from the bus while gawking at me. The driver and passengers continue to howl as the bus eases onto the road, a cloud of exhaust blasting from the rear.

"Jesus, Katniss!" Peeta snaps. "Are you out of your mind?"

I squint. _That's rhetorical, yes?_

He shakes his head, eyes blazing. "You're a piece of work, aren't you?"

It's the first time that I'm tempted to explain myself out loud. My lips go so far as to part. His gaze drops to them and lingers, flipping the mood inside-out. An uninvited spark sweeps through my chest, followed by annoyance. Even if I did speak, my answers wouldn't satisfy him. I'm not sure anything about me would be good enough for the likes of this boy.

He takes in our remote surroundings and sighs. "Well, now that you have me, what are you going to do with me?"

Jo and Tigris are expecting me. Finnick, too. We're not far from them, but walking Peeta home would delay me, and I'm impatient for the taste of saltwater, for my friends, and for the stars.

I glide my flat palm up and down in a rolling motion, mimicking a fish swimming.

"The beach?" he asks.

_It's more than a beach. Come._

"You're only inviting me because you have no choice."

_Maybe._

"And you're not my favorite person."

_I know._

"And I had plans. I was going to that café on the north shore."

I tap my wrist as though I'm wearing a watch. _It's closed._

He laughs in irritation. "Of course it is."

I wave him along. _Now come._

Peeta's boyish face teeters between temptation and reluctance. It's my fault he's reacting this way. I can't say I regret it, but I can't say I enjoy the sight either.

I think of Cinna and Primrose, and I curl my hand once again to beckon Peeta. He falls into step alongside me. That tendril of hair twitches against his shirt, in tandem to his footfalls.

It's quicker if we cut through the forest instead of hiking down the road. I expect Peeta to question where we're going when I lead him into the wilderness, or at least to chat circles around me, but he keeps to himself. We travel through a dense area bursting with life, feathers swooping between branches, colors brushing the tips of starburst petals, some breed of primate yowling—we haven't gotten to primates in Survival yet—from overhead.

Peeta retrieves a clunky camera from his backpack. He snaps away at everything, his photo-lust contagious. I've forgotten how beautiful this country is.

I discover a pond of waterlilies and dip my toe in, watching it create ripples, adding movement to an otherwise stagnant bloom.

_Click._

My head lifts. Peeta lowers his camera, glancing between me and the lily pads. "Sorry. It just looked right for you."

I keep going. He catches up with me, and our hands accidentally graze. It's like the tide has rushed in from the center of the ocean, stretching high and chasing the safety of the coastline. Water roars in my ears. I'm drowning, but I'm uncertain whether I want him to save me, because that might hurt worse.

That's what Peeta's touch does.

I'm finally recovering from it when we reach the ocean. Our shoes dangle from our fingers, and sand sneaks between our toes. The sun is sinking, warming the ground, pink shadows glinting off flat rocks along the shoreline.

Ahead is a small fire pit that has been lit despite the balmy temperature. My friends and I call ourselves dreamers. And we dreamers like ambience.

Then I see him. His long back is illuminated, shadows dancing in the crevices under his shoulder blades as he stands by the pit in a pair of low-slung shorts. His body is so taut it could be made of fisherman's rope.

As we get closer to him, Peeta's pace slows down. "Who's that?" he asks, his voice uneven.

The object of our attention wheels around, green eyes locating mine. His mouth tilts into a sly grin, charisma and sex swirled together.

It's true. He is Poseidon. He's made of the sea and the crashing waves. And he's mine.

In my head, I answer. _That's Finnick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading and responding. Your support truly means a lot to me. And thank you to my pretty betas, Chelzie and Court81981!

_Katniss_

Finnick puts the landscape to shame. He struts toward us while flaunting a pirate-like smirk. He spreads his toned arms and calls out, "Ahhh. There's my girl."

But I won't go to him. I stay still as he approaches, because that's the way it is. I won't ever go to anyone.

He was out spearing fish with his father during my protest, so I haven't seen him since before then. He slings his arms around my waist, lifts me off the ground, and kisses me. My knees bend, my calves sticking in the air and my feet pointing towards the sky. We look like a postcard, I'm sure.

Finnick tips his head back. "Finally out of trouble and here to have your way with me, eh? Aren't I the lucky one?"

I playfully shove at his profile. _Don't flatter yourself._

"Look at you," he says. "Radiant as the sun, like some a girl on fire."

Before I can react to his praise, his green eyes drift over my shoulder and land on the figure behind me. "Kat…" he draws out my nickname while staring at Peeta. "There's a boy spying on us."

Finnick sets me down and sizes Peeta up. Finnick had passively listened when I told him an exchange student—a boy—was coming to live with us. He absorbed that information like he absorbs Peeta now, with flippant confidence.

My boyfriend grins. "Sorry about that. Blame it on my girl. Ladies first and everything, and she has a talent for distracting me. I'm Finnick."

Peeta thrusts his hands into his pockets. "Hey, I'm—"

"Hunkier than we expected," announces a syrupy female voice.

Tigris. She and Jo are standing off to the side, their arms linked. They couldn't look any more different, with Jo's spiky hair and the ax tattoo above her heart, and Tigris's gypsy locks and the metallic bangles chiming from her wrists.

The last time we were together, they'd been securing me to the mockingjay statue. I see the judgment tightening Jo's face—like Peeta's an antidote to fun. "So you're the American who talked Katniss out of doing Katniss things yesterday," she says, disapproval leaching into her tone.

Peeta glances my way. I want to hint that he shouldn't take her seriously, that she's just hungry and mad at the world, like me. Instead, I give him a look of artificial disinterest.

Finnick does my job for me. He makes introductions and then tips his chin toward Jo. "That one stings worse than a jellyfish." And then Tigris. "And that one fancies you."

Tigris bats her lashes at Peeta. "I love your District Twelve accent. It's so sturdy, like the rest of you."

He chuckles in amusement. "Um, thanks. I've never heard that one before."

"You're a thirst-quencher all right. Like water in a short, broad glass."

"That's supposed to be a compliment?" Jo criticizes. "You really are brainless."

"I bet he tastes like a sugar cube," Finnick declares.

Peeta blinks. "I work in a bakery."

"Sweets?"

"Bread."

"That must be where your arms came from," Tigris says.

Jo dissects Peeta with her eyes. "Thousands of miles from the loaves. You must be starving."

Peeta supplies her with a humble shrug. "I'm not complaining. Are you?"

Finnick and Tigris chuckle. Jo's lips clamps together. I have never seen someone put her in her place.

Finnick bows and swings his arm at our camp. "The evening is young. Shall we?"

We settle on the towels spread around the fire pit. I peel off my dress, revealing my orange bikini underneath. I sense Peeta watching me. He's probably worrying about whether I'm going to strip again.

Finnick steals my attention by patting his thigh. After I find a comfortable position on him, he secures me against him and teases, "So difficult to keep in one place. Someday I'm gonna tie you up in knots."

I weave my arms around his neck, pecking it once for good measure. From the corner of my eye, I notice Peeta studying us with a pensive expression. He's fondling his necklace again as if in reaction to the sight of us. I'm curious what the connection might be.

Tigris, who is perched beside him, inquires, "Do you like games, Peeta?"

He is thrown by the subject. "I don't know how to answer that."

That must be a first for him, not knowing what to say.

"I mean, what kinds of games?" he asks in apprehension, probably expecting a naughty answer considering the personalities surrounding him.

"Ugh." Jo elbows Tigris. "Only you would call it a game."

"It's not a game," Finnick clarifies. "No one's a winner or loser. Are you good with words, D12?"

"I know a few," Peeta says. "But only if you promise not to call me D12."

"Now why's that?"

"Maybe because it sounds like I come with batteries."

"Or are you afraid the nickname will steal your masculinity?"

Peeta's jaw becomes more angular. "Well, _Finny_ , what can I say?"

This American boy might be wide-eyed, but he has backbone. When he doesn't like something, he says it. When he says it with an attitude, it's...attractive.

On the other hand, was his sarcastic response an overreaction to Finnick? I can't reconcile my boyfriend's jibe. It had been mild but still very deliberate.

Finnick chuckles and inclines his head. "Suit yourself, _Peeta_. Anyway, we dreamers like to tell stories. We conjure up new identities and lives for ourselves. A bit of an escape for us, if you will."

"Pretending" Peeta translates unenthusiastically.

"Reinventing," Finnick corrects. "I'll start..."

We go around the fire, each of us taking a turn. Tonight, Jo is a tattoo artist from Brazil, Tigris is a heroine from Atlantis, and Finnick is a tragic hero forced to barter his body in a dystopian world. I communicate by writing in my notebook that I'm an archer on a mission for my people. I once read a book like that and have been fascinated by bows ever since.

When Peeta's turn comes, he wiggles on his towel. "I-I think I'm good at being a foreigner."

Finnick shakes his head. "You have to do better than that."

"But I prefer the allurement of reality."

"The way you talk is as polished as a coin," Tigris compliments.

"Coins dull with age," Jo says flatly. "And they aren't that thrilling to begin with."

"Depends on the other adjectives you use to describe them," Peeta answers, deadpan.

"She didn't use other adjectives. She used _polished_."

"I meant it in a shiny way," Tigris defends. "Look at him. He's made of shiny."

"It's okay," Peeta says. "I'm really not that interesting."

My eyes narrow at him. _No. You're a famous artist. You once led a rebellion and now live in an exclusive village reserved for survivors. You sleep with the window open and drink your tea without sugar. You've won the girl of your dreams._

He gazes back like he can hear me. He seems to understand me so well, yet I don't mind.

After we dream, we eat. Finnick has brought beer, oysters—his family is one of the few who can afford the fishing permit—and rolls for supper.

Peeta is happy to see the rolls. He splits one with Tigris, gestures to the fire, and suggests, "Let's toast it."

Finnick lurches forward, nearly spitting out his beer. He comes up laughing, Jo snorts, and Tigris giggles.

A blush consumes Peeta's cheeks. He doesn't know what he said wrong.

For some reason, his embarrassment incites defensiveness in me. My elbow digs into Finnick's ribs until he swallows his laughter.

"Em, no offense, Peet," he admonishes. "In Panem, toasting bread is what couples do in marriage ceremonies."

"Do you have a girlfriend in America?" Tigris asks.

The question relaxes Peeta. His grin seems private. "I do."

"Oh." There's a pout in her voice, but she's too much of a selfless soul to dwell on what could have been. "How long have you been together?"

"Six months."

"Not very long," Jo says.

"But you must miss her," Tigris provides.

I dip my head and mouth to myself, _You must miss her_.

"Yeah. A lot," Peeta admits.

 _Yeah. A lot_.

I need to stop repeating the conversation. Someone will catch me doing it.

"We're going to write letters to each other," he adds.

"Will that be enough?" Finnick asks.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Come on. It's September, and you're here till when—July? How do you know she's not out with the competition right now?"

"I trust her. And she trusts me."

My toe digs into the sand and draws a heart.

Finnick scoots me closer and persists, "Don't they have a saying in your country? Out of sight, out of mind?"

"We also say that absence makes the heart grow fonder," Peeta shoots back.

My toe draws an arrow spearing through the heart's center.

I would argue that Finnick wants to entertain himself, to take Peeta under his wing and introduce him to all various pairs of erect island nipples that Panem has to offer. Yet the challenging tone feels akin to a test.

He sets his beer on the ground. "That's a shame. It'll get lonely for you with no distractions."

"I'm not here for meaningless distractions," Peeta answers curtly.

_Meaningless distractions._

"Is that right?" Finnick asks. "Are you picky?"

"I'm loyal."

Tigris sighs as though that's the best answer to come out of a boy's mouth. Jo grunts and rises, slapping sand off her thighs. "I'm bored. I want to go play."

Finnick, Jo, and Tigris answer the call of the sea. As they rid themselves of their clothing, Peeta focuses on his feet and twiddles his thumbs. He shows no intention of moving. The nakedness must be dissuading him from swimming.

My friends race to the water, their heels kicking up sand. My boyfriend stays behind, waiting for me to join him, but I want more time, so I wink at him. Finnick is a slave to my winks.

_Go on. I'll be there soon._

Before he takes off after Jo and Tigris, Finnick gives me a long kiss that I suspect is for Peeta's benefit. It's like he is marking his territory, although that cannot be right. It's unlike my boyfriend to feel the need to warn off other guys. I suppose he merely wants to show me off.

The sun slipped beneath the horizon a while ago, allowing the stars to peek from the darkness. I lay back on a towel, propping myself on my elbows and stretching out my legs. Peeta glances at me from beneath his lids.

"This country is, um, surreal. I've read books and seen movies that take place in paradise, and I thought I knew exactly what to expect, but it's not the same. It's like going to an alternate universe."

I stare. I want him to keep talking, to see in what direction of thought my gaze pushes him.

"You can try to paint it or photograph it or describe it, but you can't really do it right. Yet you still try."

He taps his foot. His eyes skip over the flowering bromeliads before gingerly checking to see my reaction.

My own eyes travel the length of him. I bite my pinky nail.

He speaks faster. "Like I read this fanfic once. Alice fell down a waterfall instead of a rabbit hole and ended up on Croquet Island, and she shacked up with this beach bum who turned out to be the Mad Hatter serving hallucinogenic mushrooms instead of tea—though it fits to canon if you consider the wordplay. And then the Jabberwocky was a sea monster…" he trails off.

I have no idea what fanfic is, or who Alice is, or the Mad Hatter, or the Jabberwocky. I don't care. Normally, I would be fascinated by what sounds like a certain form of storytelling, but right now all I am interested in is Peeta.

"And there w-was another story about kids being forced to fight to the death in an island arena while the world watched on TV…"

Sweat has leaked through his shirt in patches.

"Th-those aren't really the best examples of what I expected from Panem. I just expected, you know…grass skirts and…coconuts."

His jeans are tight around the thighs and must be stifling him in this weather.

"Did you know that jabberwocky's actually a noun? It means babble and gibberish."

He catches what he said and flushes. I allow myself to melt just a little bit.

His eyes widen as I sit up and crawl over to him. I touch the silver _M_ charm hanging from his neck, massaging the cursive letter between my fingers. It's flawless, elegant, and expensive-looking. My thumb eclipses its size and shape, making it disappear.

The words come out of him at a sluggish pace. "It stands for Madge. My girlfriend."

His chest rises and falls. His throat pumps. He sucks in air through his nostrils. It's all very normal, yet I have trouble believing that anyone breathes the way he does.

As I ponder what it's like to have control over those little intakes of breath, my hand releases the charm and lands gently on his thigh, then slides to his knee. His lips part in surprise, his eyes like whirlpools, drowning me in their bottomless blue color. I trace the round, hard contours of the bend in his leg. Indeed, pleasure dances inside me when his breaths grow shallow.

He wants me to stop, though he doesn't push me away. I doubt he's pure, but his change in breathing does prove one thing. This boy has never been seduced. Not correctly.

A wave slams into the ocean, breaking our trance.

Peeta inches his leg away and clears his throat. "Okay, I only have one question."

To him, that's what I'm worth. A single question.

"Why do you like making me uncomfortable?"

My mouth opens involuntarily. I debate retrieving my notebook from my bag, and what to write to him in response, when three rowdy voices shout my name in unison from the water: "Kaaaaaatniss!"

It's my excuse. I stand, motioning for Peeta to follow.

He gets up but rubs his thighs. "No thanks."

_It's dark. No one will see you undress._

"I'm good."

_Good at what?_

"I'm fine," he clarifies. "I, uh, can't swim."

I recall the questionnaire that I burned. Peeta had written on it that he came to this place because his father once did. I guess that explains why Peeta would choose to travel to an island even though he can't swim. He believes in following in his parents' footsteps.

He smiles. "It's all right. I'd like to take a walk anyway."

An unforgivable part of me wants to join him. I squash that part and gesture casually in the direction that's most scenic at night.

Peeta heads out. When I reach my friends, Jo scrutinizes my bikini. "Feeling modest?"

I shrug. _It's pretty. Why waste it?_

She puffs. "Sure."

Of course, she knows me better, can sense that I'm keeping my suit on because of Peeta. I'm no longer at ease having him see me naked—not when it doesn't have the effect I want.

We play games, chasing each other in the water, battling and splashing one another blind. Jo flattens her palms on Tigris's head and dunks her beneath the surface. Finnick grabs Jo around the waist and hefts her up, twisting and then flinging her into an oncoming wave. I leap onto Finnick's back and smash a handful of wet sand in his face.

The four of us swim and glide and float. We submerge and flap our arms and legs out, and it's like another planet down here, a womb cocooning us. Tigris, Jo, and I are mermaids. Finnick is the God of the Sea—minus the trident. We can't open our eyes underwater, but I can imagine. Three girls circling a boy, our seaweed hair floating upward as we exist amongst clownfish and starfish and eels slipping through the cracks in the ocean floor—because even under the surface, cracks can be found.

I'm amazed. I haven't thought of my sister once. She's usually with me, existing at the boundaries of my mind, the place that I dare let myself venture to as the memories trace the lines of my heart.

Not tonight. I'm content without her tonight.

I follow the shoreline, resisting the chance to plunge deeper. The darkness is a dangerous siren's call.

The best part of swimming is that moment when my body propels through the surface, my mouth splitting and my chest filling with oxygen. The moment when I choose life over suffocation.

When I come up for air, I discover that I've separated myself from the group without intending to. Their feathery voices stroke my ears from a distance.

I glide closer to the beach until I'm able to stand, the water lapping at my chin. I scan the beach, searching, wondering and then catching sight of the American boy's footprints in the sand, a long line of tracks visible in the silver light but gradually fading into the dark—walking away from me. It's the saddest thing I've seen all year, like I've been left behind.

I imagine Peeta being able to swim. I would love to wrestle him down into the abyss, race him, and wipe him out.

A pair of sinewy arms sneak around my waist from behind. A saltwater voice murmurs three hot words in my ear. "I missed you."

The confession is playful but hardly serious. Missing each other isn't who we are.

Yet Finnick also picks this moment to bring a real concern to light. "I was worried about you yesterday," he says. "I didn't know if you were alright or if something went wrong in the square. I wish you'd do these things when I'm actually around. I had to hear from Old Man Sae that you were fine."

Jo and Tigris were supposed to be my messengers and keep Finnick posted on the protest. I guess they didn't get to him quick enough. I don't care for him getting soft on me, but although there's little jail space in town, Finnick had cause to fret. After all, if he'd been sufficiently riled up, Cray could have detained me in some way.

I kiss Finnick's arm to apologize. It's all he needs to return to more enjoyable tasks. His hands travel up my ribcage and slip under the thin triangles of my top, thumbs teasing my nipples, coaxing them to harden. I sigh inwardly, falling against his chest, wanting more. My boyfriend enjoys spoiling me with his embraces, making me as wet and loose as this ocean.

I'm glad he's here. I've been tense for the past two days, he's in the early stages of an erection, and I need release. I'm grateful that we can do this here without any worries or barriers. The minute I turned sixteen, Haymitch took me to a clinic to get a shot against pregnancy. It's one of the few treatments shipped in from America that islanders don't have to pay for.

Finnick secures me with one arm and dips his free hand into the front of my bikini bottom. "Hmm. Looks like I found a secret. Any more worth my time?"

_Absolutely._

I melt further into him, my arms reaching back, fingers threading through his slick hair and latching on for support. I know where this is going and what it will do to my stamina. I won't be able to hold myself up for long.

His fingers skim over the soft swells between my thighs. My pulse beats, small as a pebble, right in the center of my body. The ache is endless, expanding to my toes and navel. If he would just hurry up…

My desire goes unanswered. Finnick rebels against his usual swift and passionate pace, reverting to the guy who took my virginity slowly. Aside from that first time, his languid movements are new.

So much newness lately. A chain reaction of newness.

I writhe, and he nips my lobe. "Pull yourself together."

I pull his hair, and he responds, the tip of his pinky barely tracing my slit while the stars fall out of focus. That tight part of me responds, bucks into his hand, a greedy movement that's rewarded with Finnick's groan.

I win. I always do.

A light probe…a little bolder…a little rougher…until he's there. His fingers slide in, and I unleash, riding them with firm snaps of my hips. We disregard sensuality and go for it.

"That's right, Kat," he says. "Open for me."

Yes. I'm spreading, catching fire. My boyfriend's pants grow louder, more hectic. Jo and Tigris are too far away to hear him.

I keep my own noises locked in a vault in my throat, a place that no one can penetrate or unlock. The end shouldn't take this long, though. By now, I've usually dropped off the edge of the world. Instead, I'm racing but getting nowhere. This isn't enough.

Finnick withdraws his finger, spins me toward him, and hooks my legs around his waist. Droplets run down his torso, his pupils glittering. He pushes aside the panty line of my bikini and strokes me with the head of his cock.

"You're so beautiful," he says. When I scoff, he captures my chin, preventing me from looking away. "You are," he insists.

Then he thrusts up into me. My teeth dig into my lower lip, holding back the moan. I'm weightless, and he takes advantage, seizing my hips and bobbing me on top of him, exposing my upper body over the water. Each time I come down, he gyrates his pelvis upward so that our hips collide. Our stuttering breaths mix together.

I'm facing the horizon. He knows I don't like that, so he turns us again, enabling me to face the beach once more.

"You're going to come with me like the beautiful wild thing you are," he says.

That's what I want. _This_ is who we are, a pair of starved bodies, a guy who can turn grief to putty in his hands. His forehead falls onto my shoulder, and he doubles his efforts, lashing his body into mine and jolting me repeatedly into the air.

But I'm still not there. What's wrong? Why isn't this working?

My gaze lands on the footprints again. I think of watercolor paints and irises the same hue as this ocean—crystalline, piercing, and bright.

Blue.

While I fuck my boyfriend, the blue surrounds me, soaking into me and touching me in a different way. It envelops me, swarms my mind, my toes, my blood. That's when I burst, my pleasure shooting out into a million directions as I think of the American boy's eyes. My mouth opens in a silent orgasm.

Yet it's not the ebbing pleasure that I pay attention to. It's the second pair of footprints retracing its path across the sand. It's the shadowed face angled toward us and the broad silhouette arrested mid-walk on the beach. It's the tendril of blond hair reflected by the sky. It's the person watching us.

It's Peeta.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I know! Hang in there, please...
> 
> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com


	6. Chapter 6

_Peeta_

I know what I saw. I can't get the harsh images out of my head, so much so that it keeps me awake that night, troubled and confused. It's not like I meant to see them, or even expected to see them. I'd been returning from my walk and just turned my head toward the ocean, and then the scene caught me off guard, freezing my feet in place while shock took over. Still, no matter how paralyzed I was, I felt like a creeper while they...while she...while...

God, I don't know what to think. Even from a distance, Katniss had looked like she was dwelling on something else besides Finnick. The surf's whooshing made it hard to tell for sure, but I figured that she'd been silent the entire time. Even he can't draw out her voice.

He'd kissed her cheek afterward. She didn't seem to care.

Because by then she had caught me watching.

I turned away and forced myself to walk slowly back to the fire pit, pretending to be clueless and hoping it was convincing, realizing that it wasn't as her gaze pierced me across the flames later.

For the next three days, the awkwardness continues to drill a hole into my gut. I'm tongue-tied before and after school, when we're forced to be home together, but Violet is too lost in her own world to notice, and Haymitch is probably too grateful for the break that he doesn't waste his time asking why I've been as mute as his niece.

By Thursday night, I'm still suffering the aftereffects of what happened at the beach. It takes me two hours to get to sleep. And it feels like two seconds before I wake up again.

A hand rests on my shoulder, gingerly shaking me out of a dream. Katniss's nose is inches from my own as her free hand grasps the handles of the stairs leading up to my bunk.

I sit up too fast for my equilibrium. The room spins. "What—"

She puts her finger to her lips and then points down, reminding me that Haymitch is snoring beneath us. She motions for me to rise, then she climbs down to the floor. My delirium subsides, my brain catching up with her request as I untangle myself from the sheet, obedient but confused.

On the ground, she checks out my sleeveless tank and boxer trunks. Nodding at them with approval, she gestures for me to follow her.

Out of the room. Out of the cottage.

The warm, fragrant air works like caffeine to my system. Did I just leave the house without getting fully dressed?

Barefoot, Katniss glides ahead of me, periodically checking over her shoulder to make sure I'm there. Her white dress billows like a cloud around her legs, and her loose hair reminds me of spilled ink.

The echo of the ocean gets louder as we return to the beach. We stroll to the water's edge where she frowns at the sheet of black and blue ahead of us, the water disappearing into a void. Her lips press together as though she's torn about something.

She turns to me abruptly and speaks with her eyes. _I don't want to make you uncomfortable anymore._

I'm caught off guard yet again. It seems awfully sudden for her to change her tune, but then I _did_ catch her having sex with her boyfriend, and she knows that. And it's like she's had a glimpse of how the scene must have looked to an outsider. Because now I notice a tint of embarrassment in her gaze, even though she's trying to hide it by tightening that chin of hers.

I want to believe her. She brought me out here, in the middle of the night, to tell me this. Like this place is her safety net.

"You love the sea, don't you?" I say.

She wavers, debating whether or not I'm serious.

"I mean, you grew up here. It's not a stretch. You're…" I feel lame saying it. "You're like the ocean."

Wild. Building momentum. Approaching and receding.

Katniss shakes her head. _That's not why I love it._

She pantomimes diving deep, and then points at the sky. The sight would normally be funny to me, cheesy and a little ridiculous, but her earnestness is endearing.

I get what she means. In the water, she's between two places, with infinity above and below. It's the deepest anyone can sink and the highest anyone can soar. That's why she loves the sea.

She jogs toward it, stops, and twists around, peering at me expectantly.

When I was eight, my mother made fun of me trying to swim in the lake back home—in front of all my friends. I had flopped around hopelessly at the shallow end, swallowed a bucket of slimy water, and eventually gave up. From then on, I stuck to what came naturally, things that I knew I wouldn't fail at.

I tell Katniss, "I can't swim, remember?"

She's unfazed. _I will show you how._

Just like that, something officially shifts between us.

The waves knock me around. The saltwater stings my eyes. No one is here to witness my clumsiness except for Katniss, her wet fingers holding onto my forearms, her dress clinging to her skin. She's stern, refusing to coddle me, but she doesn't laugh at me or lose her patience. She acts like she expects me to learn, like she knows I can do this. I relax, manage a few capable breaststrokes, and feel ridiculously proud.

When we return to the cottage, she stops at her bedroom door and waves goodnight. The view of her soaked and transparent dress feels far more intimate than when she was completely naked in front of me.

I avert my gaze, but I have to say it before she leaves. "Katniss, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry about the other night. I didn't mean to see you and...him. I wasn't...it wasn't on purpose. I didn't know you'd be there. And I...I was shocked. I wasn't...I wasn't watching you like that. I swear."

I glance back up, keeping my eyes strictly on her face. She waits a moment, then nods. _I know._ She slips into her room, leaving me staring at the trail of water droplets that she brought into the house.

I used to think she was crazy. But maybe it's only me. Maybe perfect is crazy.

After that, we begin to spend time together. We take nightly walks on the beach, with me talking occasionally but mainly staying as quiet as her, while the warm water laps at our feet. And she keeps giving me swimming lessons. And the more we're together, the more we loosen up.

The weeks pass quickly. I go to school and sit next to Gale, who's a nice guy and tends to rant about deforestation in North America. His passion is practically radioactive. He wants to know why _this_ and why _that_ , as if I have an answer for everything that goes on in my continent.

Questions become my lifestyle here. Students ask me what I was taught in District Twelve about totalitarianism. Do people fish where I'm from? What are cheese buns?

I dodge the human strobe-light, Mrs. Trinket, who dresses like a parade float and speed-walks through the hall on faculty errands, nearly running students over on her way. I listen to Cinna, our teacher—only one teacher all day—lecture about physics one hour, Panem legends the next hour, and first aid the next.

I miss the spirit of high school back home. The pep rallies, the jokes and phrases that I actually understood. The sounds of lockers slamming. Posters on the walls. Invites to parties. The familiarity of waiting for Madge outside her biology class.

Panem's high school is too poor to focus on anything but lessons. But outside of school, I have time to draw and take photographs. For hours, I get to hear chalk grazing paper and the click of Dad's camera. I follow his directions to a small business—surprisingly, it's still around to develop film rolls—and send pictures home.

Madge's letters come less often than mine, but they're longer and typed—she still hates her handwriting—and are more about our friends than about herself. I tell her that I miss her. She writes the same, except with acronyms, which is a zap to my brain because villagers don't speak that way here, and I like that about them.

I get used to my host family. Haymitch works a lot and then comes home smelling like tequila. Once in a while, I'll catch him watching Violet with a sad expression or studying me like I'm a math equation.

Buttercup is the family cat. We're buddies.

I still don't know who Primrose is.

I help Violet in the kitchen and learn about local spices. I teach her as much as I can about baking despite the limited variety of flour imported to the island, and the fact that everything has to be done manually instead of with machines. There's a hand-crank mill, and I have only a small oven to work with instead of an industrial one, but I don't have to rush to fill orders or get an entire bakery ready before sunrise.

My host family eats mostly vegetables and fried fruits and grains. No soda, chips, or pastries, but the cheap juices are amazing. I'm low on protein and lose a few pounds because of this.

Violet is soft-spoken, but she lets me fill the kitchen with talk. Sometimes she grins to herself, sometimes at me.

Sometimes Katniss watches us from the doorway.

September slips into October.

Katniss and I still sit in our own corners of class, but we do our homework side-by-side at the dinner table. She scowls at me if I try to help her with an assignment, especially when it comes to Survival. One time in response, I take a chance and cross my eyes, and she sucks in her cheeks to keep from smiling.

Another day, we tentatively migrate to her room, facing each other on her bed, a pad and pencil in her lap so she can communicate with me. I insist on a round of "Would You Rather," a game from my country and discover she'd rather lose a leg than a hand. We do random Q & A sessions where I confess to being afraid of closed windows, and she confesses that she's terrified of jabberjays, Panem's most predatory bird.

I try to figure her out and fail miserably. And I like that, too.

She's tender with Violet, brushing the woman's hair and filling her plate at meals, staring at her mother with an expression that I recognize—longing.

She goes out regularly looking for an after-school job but always comes home and thwacks the nearest plant in frustration because jobs are scarce here.

When we're not alone or with the family, we hang out with her dreamer friends at night. I learn to anticipate whenever Tigris is going to tease me, and when Jo is going to glare at me, though it happens less and less over time, eventually shifting to something like acceptance.

As for Finnick, I can predict whenever he's going to draw Katniss closer into his nest of biblical muscles, and when Katniss is going to allow it. I have no clue what they mean to each other, but I'm not a fan of them together. Their relationship rubs me the wrong way, I guess because something about it feels insincere, and it's just...it gets on my nerves. I'd rather not be around Finnick at all, but I find myself wanting to stay near Katniss.

I try to concentrate on the group's stories instead, their imaginations overflowing with fiction. It's the silvery glint in Katniss's eyes that finally encourages me to participate. When I turn myself into a Robin Hood-type figure, they all applaud, and I have to admit, it does feel good having taken a chance and seeing if I'm any good at it.

In one of Jo's stories, she's a virginal warrior.

"That's quite inventive," Finnick jokes. "Who of us is remotely virginal anymore? Ah, wait. I forgot. Peeta, are you a virgin?"

I remember the last time Madge and I were alone. Her room, the shades closed, the house empty.

"No," I answer, my voice clipped. "But we don't need to talk about it."

It's private. Anyway, it's nothing to brag about. Even though we did it twice in a row, it was difficult for both of us, and I wasn't that good at it, the first time being painful for her, the second time not as painful but still clumsy. We tried to get it right, but I didn't last long either time, which is no one's business.

Yet there's another reason why I'm uncomfortable with the topic. It has to do with Katniss. She's staring out to sea in distraction, her silence even more intense than it usually is. The orange sunset shines on her toes. She contemplates something, then gets up, pressing her fingers to her temple to indicate she has a headache. She won't allow Finnick or I to walk her home.

Once I've mastered the art of swimming, she takes me to an isolated lagoon to celebrate. On the hike there, she forgets to tell me—to write me—that we're coming from a trail that ends looking down onto the water. We have to jump from there.

Peeking over the edge, I see a glittering teal pool shrouded by foliage. I wouldn't classify the drop as lethal from this height, but it's enough for me to step back while shaking my head.

"N-no way," I stutter.

Rather than writing her response in the notebook in her bag, Katniss tilts her head. _It's not dangerous._

"Isn't there another route to get down there? From the other side or something?"

_There is, but that's boring._

"You totally planned this!"

_It's more fun this way._

"What if the lagoon is too shallow?"

_I've done this before. Trust me._

I wonder if this is what she's really saying or if I'm failing at reading her facial expressions. "We could slip as we're jumping, we could bang into the cliff on the way down, we could smack our heads on a rock—would you quit smirking?"

Katniss marches in place and salutes me. _Yes, sir._

"I'm serious."

_Yes, sir._

"Be serious with me for one sec…" I want to be annoyed, but the comical sight of her flattening her palm against her forehead and stomping her foot like a soldier makes me laugh.

Katniss kicks off her sandals and peels off her dress to reveal her orange bikini, tossing everything else, including her bag, over the side and watching them land on the mossy ground surrounding the lagoon. I do the same, stripping down to my trunks.

She takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine. Every selfish impulse that I've ever had intersects right there, sparking and crackling at the place where we're connected.

 _We won't let something happen_ , I think she promises. _We'll protect each other._

We back up, then launch ahead and leap off the edge. It's a free-falling blur of senses—weightlessness and shapes and Katniss's hand clasping mine.

"Ohhh...myyy...godddddddd!" I holler.

We hit the water. I hear a roaring splash and then nothing. I'm submerged for a second, and then I'm crashing back up through the surface, mist from a nearby waterfall spraying my face. Katniss floats next to me. The rush of our fingers entwined is the same as when we were plummeting. It's incredible.

I'm about to shout my elation when her face shifts, her lips bowing upward and revealing teeth for the first time, showing me what she looks like when she's happy.

Out of nowhere, I realize that November has snuck up on me. Just like her smile.

kpkpkpkpkp

I'm sitting on my bed, my legs hanging over the top bunk while I review a chapter of the book we're reading for Survival. I can't believe I'm studying the steps and risks of CPR for a grade.

Mid page-turn, a hand wraps around my ankle and tugs. I grin to myself but ignore it, and it tugs again harder.

"What?" I ask, not looking up.

Nevertheless, I see a blur out of the corner of my eye. Katniss's face pops over the rim of my textbook. _You have to look at me when we talk._

"I'm busy."

_No, you're not._

"There's a test next week."

_It's Friday night._

"It's Friday afternoon," I correct. "The sun doesn't set for another two hours, and I still have one more page—"

She swipes the textbook from my hands and races out of the room.

"Hey!" I leap off the bed, my feet slamming onto the floor, and chase after her. Haymitch is at work, and Violet is visiting with a neighbor, so no one's home to see us cannonball through the house.

Katniss runs into the living room, hopping over Buttercup on the way. The cat crouches low and hisses at her, the hairs on its back raised.

We dart around furniture. Each time I reach out, I miss Katniss narrowly. Breathless, she stops by the front door and tosses me the textbook. I catch it against my chest.

"Okay," I laugh. "Obviously you're determined to distract me."

There's a certain nervous energy to her. What is she up to? She's always up to something naughty, and I always get sucked into it, like the cliff jump or that one time she challenged me to a fork fencing match at the dinner table.

She grabs her bag and opens the door to the great big island world. Here we go again. She is going to lead, and I'm going to follow.

We walk two miles to the village square, where Haymitch bartends at the cantina and where Katniss tied herself to the mockingjay statue. It's barely four o'clock, but by the time we get there, the sky is a swirl of dusky colors, dim enough for the familiar yellow lights strung over the courtyard to glow. Beneath the lights is a crowd. I gape at the guitarists—including Sae's husband—playing Latin-sounding music and the couples spinning each other like discs. The scent of sizzling chiles wafts from the thatch-roofed carts scattered over the area. It's a street fest.

_What do you think?_

Katniss watches me, chin hiked in defensiveness as she awaits my judgment. She had asked that same thing on my first day, when she tried on my shirt, which she still hasn't given back.

"I wish I could draw this," I answer. "What's the occasion?"

She points to herself and then at the mockingjay statue. She holds out her wrists, shackle-style.

"The protest?" I ask. "Is-is this is a protest?"

She nods.

"You did this?"

She nods again. I'm bowled over. I thought she'd forgotten my words from that day, about doing things as a community.

"A protest for the fishing permits," I assume. "So the party goes on until the cost of the permits goes down?"

She pulls her notebook from her bag and writes. _We'll be here all night if we have to. And into the next day. People will come and go, for rest and other things._

"Because that will help keep the party going," I summarize.

She holds up her thumb, a District Twelve gesture that I taught her. I barely have time to chuckle before she sets down her bag and sashays backward into the dancing, curling the fingers of both her hands. _Come on, American boy._

She picks up the hem of her long skirt and snaps it from side-to-side, her hips revolving, her sandaled feet beating out a quick pattern. I don't know how to dance like that. It reminds me of cha-cha-cha or salsa. Or are they the same thing?

People call out as I stand awkwardly on the sidelines. "Come," they cheer. "Come, Peeta. Dance with her! Dance with Katniss!"

They're right. I should.

The music is energetic and fast, with a sexy pulse that makes me feel inadequate, so Katniss takes pity on me and keeps us on the fringes of the crowd. She sets her hands on my waist and swings it from left to right.

_Move only your lower body. Step like this._

_One-two. One-two-three._

_One-two. One-two-three._

I watch our bodies sync together, praying that I can do this without accidentally head-butting her.

She tips my face up. _Look right at me. Feel me. Move with me._

She drapes her arm over my shoulder and clasps my free hand, pulling me closer, her hips rocking against my palm.

I remind myself that dancing in public is okay. Dancing with a friend is okay.

That's what Katniss is. We've become friends.

As I get the hang of the dance, she smiles, and I smile back, but then our faces go slack. The air gets hotter as our hips roll tightly together, overstimulating me in all the wrong places. Then, fuck, a single droplet of sweat trickles down the side of her neck, making me wish that I could break the rules and swipe it with my finger, before it disappears between her breasts. Her lids droop, as if she's having similar, unprecedented thoughts. We move nearer to one another.

"There's my girl."

And we come to a clownish end, bumping into each other as Finnick approaches. He kisses the side of her neck and greets me with a brief, "Hey Peeta," while his eyes warm at the sight of Katniss. I back off as he claims her and leads her deeper into the crowd for a dance. She cranes her head over her shoulder to glance at me before the throng swallows her. By now, the sun has gone down.

"He's the bee and she's the pollen," Jo remarks, appearing beside me.

"Where's Tigris?" I ask, spotting Finnick's bed-hair above the crowd.

"She's somewhere flirting."

"Bees are fat and fuzzy. Finnick isn't a bee."

"Your shiny vocabulary knows better than me what to call him."

 _Asshole_ seems accurate, I think to myself. Out loud, I make a more polite list. "Cavalier. Grandiose. Clean-shaven."

"Huh. So where can I find Katniss in the dictionary?"

"I don't think the words for her can be found in a place where they're frozen forever."

"Shit. Are you for real?"

I balk at Jo. "You like pretend you have a magic ax that cuts souls in half, but _now_ you want real?"

She snorts. "I didn't like you at first for invading my friend's life. I thought you'd be too snobby and righteous for this place, but I was wrong. The last time I saw Katniss smile was when Primrose was still alive. I bet you have something to do with resurrecting that smile. You've done what none us have been able to. And this." She flits her arm out at the scene. "This is also because of you. You're good for Katniss."

That's not an option. The evidence of it is hanging around my neck. "I'm already good for someone."

"Then why are you glaring at Finnick like you want to tear him away from my friend?"

I sigh. "I don't like him with her."

"Fair enough. But since meeting you, I've learned not to take people at face value. You might want to do the same."

"So I'm off the mark in assuming their relationship isn't a fluffy, romantic one? And that Finnick isn't out just for himself?" I mock.

"Does Katniss look like the type to let someone victimize her?" she counters. "He isn't as deviant as you think, and Katniss may be wounded, but she's not weak. She's a survivor. She's the one who made the first move. She knows what she wants and how she wants it. And he gives that to her."

I grind my teeth. "I bet he does."

"It's the only way she'll let him help. And it's the only way she's willing to help him." At my puzzled expression, she clarifies, "It's a mutual, coping thing. Let's just say they have similar histories." Then she grunts. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I think you're infinitely better for her than he is. I know why they're together, but I'm not crazy about it, and I told her so. Not that she listens."

"Back up. They help each other with what?"

"Come on, brainless. It's not my job to tell you everything. Let Katniss fill you in. If I'm right about you being good for her, she will."

Jo's remarks about _coping_ and _similar histories_ bring me back to someone that she mentioned earlier. "Who's Primrose?"

Jo plants her hands on her hips. "So they haven't told you. Well, that figures. Primrose was Katniss's little sister. She drowned last fall, a year before you got here."

I almost have trouble believing it. "In the ocean?" I ask like an idiot. "But Katniss loves the ocean. How could she, after that?"

"Katniss doesn't blame the sea. She blames herself for not saving Primrose and hasn't spoken since then."

I think back to Katniss's protest, when Sae had said something about her wild attitude.

_Well, we can't blame her._

I remember Violet calling Katniss by the wrong name— _Thank you, Primrose_ —and the look on Katniss's face when it happened.

I recall Haymitch grumbling when I insisted on preaching Katniss out of her handcuffs.

_This was part of the deal anyway._

Suddenly, I have a disturbing, disappointing, infuriating idea of why I'm here. On this island. With this family. I need to talk to Haymitch. I need to yell at him…no, he's my host father. I need to...raise my voice.

Finnick's bed-hair has disappeared from the crowd. He and Katniss must have left.

I mutter parting words to Jo, abandon the party, and storm toward the cantina. The heavy moans seeping out from an alleyway detour me. I don't know what possesses me to follow them, but I do. More cords of light hang overhead, outlining Finnick's hair. He and Katniss are pressed up against a wall, her leg hitched over his hip as he moves steadily against her.

A profoundly sharp sensation splinters through me. I'm about jerk my gaze away when she twists her face in my direction, revealing her features, the look of raw frustration there, like this isn't going the way she wants it to. Like something's keeping her from enjoying it. It's the same look that I saw that night I caught them.

Then Finnick holds her wrists above her head, which reminds me of the shackles that bound her during the protest, those red marks left behind on her skin.

And I'm on Finnick before I know it, hauling him off Katniss and ramming him into the opposite wall. "Get your hands off her!" I growl right before my fist cracks against his face, wrenching it to the side.

I aim for another swing, but Katniss's nails dig into my arms and yank on them, distracting me enough for Finnick to free himself.

"What the hell?" he spits. "What the hell is wrong with you, Peeta?"

"Stay away from Katniss!"

"Away from her? She's my girlfriend! _She_ brought _me_ here!"

My mind reels. I should be roaring at Finnick, but the fact that Katniss is clasping his face and checking to see if he's okay makes it all too clear. I thought he was forcing himself on her. I was wrong.

"What, you think I'd hurt her?" Finnick says between his teeth, insulted. "You think I'd do that? Fuck you!"

I brace myself for a fight. I'd caught him unexpectedly, but now he's prepared and sufficiently fueled for one. My wrestling skills versus the eight inches he has on me, plus the fact that he's Poseidon, proves that I'm in mortal danger. I won't hesitate to punch back, but I know my ass is about to be handed to me. Hopefully after the police scrape me off the pavement, Haymitch will tell my dad that I loved him very much.

I'm wrong again, though. Finnick holds up his arms, elbows bent, to curb his anger. "I'm warning you, Peeta," he hisses, pointing at me. "Fucking go ahead and try me. Go ahead."

Katniss manages to lead him away while he's still seething, and they disappear around the corner. I sag against the wall, shaking like crazy. Guitars strumming and people clapping overlap in the background. I can't reconcile what Jo said about not taking people at face value and what I saw in this alleyway. I overreacted, blindsighted by his grip on her wrists, and I just don't understand how I'm supposed to feel, what I'm supposed to think. About anyone.

It's a solid twenty minutes before I pull myself together and another forty-five minutes before I make it home, carrying her bag because she'd left it behind at the square. When I arrive, Katniss is already sitting on the front porch.

When she sees me, she lurches up and storms my way. She's a tsunami in a dress, her gray eyes ripping me to shreds.

"Katniss," I begin. "I'm sor—"

Her open palm slaps me across the face, stinging the living hell out of my cheek and causing me to drop her bag. She's panting so loud that I can almost imagine what her voice sounds like, and for some reason, that makes me angry.

"Why are you with him?" I demand. "Is it just...just for sex?"

Katniss looks me up and down. _I don't have to explain myself to you._

"Oh, that's brilliant," I sneer.

She flings her arms out to the sides in exasperation. _What is?_

"He's using you. You're in pain, and he's using you, and you're okay with that?"

_Damn you! You don't know him! You don't know me!_

I fall silent as she yanks her notebook from her bag and scribbles, _You think I picked Finnick at random? He knows my past. He understands it in ways you can't!_

She's right. And what Jo said before starts to make sense. Finnick must have lost someone, just like Katniss. He doesn't look like the type of guy who's coping with anything, but if anyone seems like they can put on a performance, it's him. He's a good storyteller, so maybe he's also a very good actor.

I still hate him, though.

Katniss flings the notebook to the ground. _No one. Uses. Me._ Then she wheels around, and escapes to the screen door. It winces as she opens it.

I don't want her to go. "Please, Katniss, wait."

Her back tenses.

"It was a mistake."

She squeezes the knob.

"I just..." My eyes sink to the ground. "I was trying to protect you, like we agreed to."

Festering silence goes on for ages. Then I hear the screen door bounce against the frame, followed by the sound of her feet hurrying across the grass and getting closer to me.

I look up right before she grabs my face and crushes her lips to mine.

I make a noise of shock, grabbing onto her hips to keep myself from stumbling back, inadvertently pulling her flush against my chest while my heart turns into a ping-pong ball from the contact. Her mouth is eager, slanting over mine and fitting us together in a soul-stirring, reckless, dizzying kiss.

It's like plunging head first into that lagoon, only deeper, possibly leading to the place where her voice is hidden. My mouth yearns to open and taste her moist breath. My lips are on the verge of parting, my fingers winding into her hair and dragging up her scalp a split second before I realize what I'm doing. And who I'm doing it with.

I tear my mouth from hers. "I can't," I gasp. "I…I can't. I'm sorry. I can't do this."

Her lips are half-puckered as if hoping for more, but her irises dim. She looks so lost that I feel an emptiness in my chest.

She turns, walks to the front porch, and disappears inside the cottage.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays :)

_Katniss_

Whenever bad things happened to one of us, my sister and I would take refuge in the hallway closet together. We'd join forces, wedging ourselves between broom sticks and boxes, and we'd hold hands and try to slay the demons—scary myths that gave us nightmares, an accidental encounter with a jabberjay that left us shaken, or even an embarrassing rash.

Primrose would nestle her face into my neck and wait for comfort to return in the form of familiar things—like Mama coming home with oranges from the market. Primrose often expected to be rescued by such moments.

I didn't. I went to the closet anticipating that it would get worse, knowing Mama's presence couldn't do much to heal me. Because when Papa died and she screamed for five minutes straight, I stopped believing that parents were able to conquer the world.

Sometimes while in the closet, my sister and I would hear airplanes overhead. We'd make up stories about where they came from or where they were going, and there was always a good reason those planes couldn't land on our roof and take us with them. One was that Mama needed us. She needed Primrose.

One afternoon as we hid away in our spot, Mama had frantically called my sister's name—only _her_ name—when she couldn't find us. I was ten. Primrose was six. As siblings, we were loyal to each other first and foremost, so we didn't come out for a long time to spite Mama for neglecting to call my name as well. Hiding meant we were the victors, so _shh_.

_Don't let her know we're nearby, that we're listening. Not yet. Save our words and keep them between us.  
_

I haven't escaped to the closet in over a year. But I find myself there now.

I kissed the American boy tonight.

I want to do it again. Which isn't good.

Peeta hadn't even opened his mouth, yet his kiss had tasted irresistible. Sweet and safe. If we'd continued, I'm sure that I would have been forever chasing his mouth, running out of breath, my need constant. The residue of his lips still coats mine, their effect lingering even though he's outside and I'm inside. I've retreated like a coward.

Pulling my legs to my chest, I rest my forehead on my knees. I don't know where my self-control went, not from the moment we began to dance. I regretted letting Finnick cut in between us, but not for long, because it was for the best. Because the connection between Peeta and I was getting dangerous. It needed to stop.

That's why I decided to lure Finnick into the alley. I wanted to erase Peeta from my mind and fast, and Finnick has fast hands, and I have a fast response to them.

Or I used to, at least. Up against that wall, I had trouble getting into it. I tried so hard to concentrate on him, but his body has stopped being my drug. During our interludes, it has become a routine for me to imagine another pair of eyes.

I cannot believe Peeta caught us again. I cannot believe how terrible he is at dancing, or how that charms me. I cannot believe he's my friend.

The muffled sound of an argument invades the closet. The hallway is near an open window at the side of the house where male voices collide. It's Peeta and Haymitch, hissing and struggling to keep their voices down because they're outside on the lawn, where neighbors might overhear. I crack open the closet door to eavesdrop.

"Is that why you brought me here?" Peeta grates. "To be some kind of therapy? I'm not a piece in your game to mend her."

"Calm down, boy."

"Don't call me _boy_. I have a name."

"Peeta."

"Thank you."

"Peeta."

"What?" he snaps.

"Wipe the lipstick off your face."

Silence. Silence from Peeta.

I bite the tip of my index finger. _Shh._

Did he stay outside to wait for Haymitch to get home from work? Or was he too repulsed by me to make it through the front door?

"I thought that picture by your bed meant you still had a girlfriend," Haymitch muses.

"I do. Don't change the subject."

"Something tells me whoever kissed you is part of the subject."

Guilt wracks Peeta's voice. "I-I didn't ask for it."

"Your cheeks tell another story."

"I object."

"Did you stop it?"

The quiet and Haymitch's relieved sigh suggests that Peeta has done something to indicate the affirmative.

"Good," Haymitch says. "Your cock might not know better, but emotionally you're an honorable kid."

"It's…not like that."

"You and my niece are good as friends. You need to keep it that way. I can't afford for things to get even more complicated around here. That's not what I wanted."

"What you wanted?" Peeta repeats. "You wanted me to be a distraction because I'm from another country. You brought me here to use me because you're selfish and you don't care."

"That's not true."

"You haven't asked a single thing about me," he says incredulously. "Not since that first day. You don't ask about my family or my home. You don't know how many brothers I have. You haven't asked to see my photographs. You don't know what my favorite sport is. You haven't bothered to spend any time with me, to get to know me, or tell me about yourself. You haven't even taken me past the damn village square.

"And forget that. You know what's worse? You don't spend time with Katniss, either. You were too busy in the cantina to see what she did organizing that street fest. You only pay attention when she acts up and provokes you into the Situation Chair. How the hell would you know whether we're good as friends, or why we should be friends, or why we shouldn't kiss? You think she's just a problem you can correct by taking advantage of me. And you didn't tell me about Primrose."

I inhale. I imagine Peeta exhaling.

"And who _did_ tell you about Primrose?" Haymitch asks.

"Jo did."

I grimace, remembering Jo standing beside Peeta while Finnick and I danced.

"Well," Haymitch says. "I'm impressed by you."

"Great. I can die happy."

"Look. You're right. I don't know how to do this. I haven't got it all figured out, but I ran out of options once Katniss ran me into the ground. My family's grieving, I care about them, this house needed a buffer, and yeah, you're it—let me finish, Peeta."

I picture Peeta closing his mouth.

"Yeah, I'm using you as a cushion. Whadda you know? It's working. The air in our house doesn't smell like depression anymore, and I don't regret a thing about that, but I'm not a leech. I care about what happens to you, too."

Peeta mutters something too faint to hear. There's a pause before Haymitch continues in a softer, more considerate voice. "It may not seem like it, but I want you here. You're a good kid. I'm sorry I haven't said it. And also, I _was_ there at the street fest. Sae made me dance with her."

"You can dance?"

"Not on purpose," he grunts. "You and Wild Child must have been long gone by then, but I saw what she did. That is, until Cray and his cronies got there. I was around for that, too. I see more than you think."

"The police broke it up?"

"Hell. That was bound to happen."

My lips press into a thin line. I hadn't thought to go back to the protest after what happened with Peeta. I could have done something to prevent Cray from ruining everything. I could have schemed up a diversion.

"The police got the message anyway," Haymitch suspects. "Besides, it doesn't seem like people will give up. I wouldn't be surprised if they stage another peppy revolt with more people. Katniss inspired it. It's a step, at least."

I fidget with my braid. Primrose would be proud.

"So tell me Peeta, you think coming here was a mistake?"

"You put all this on my shoulders. You shouldn't have done that. It's messed up."

"No, it's fucked up," Haymitch corrects wearily. "I may not regret it, but I know it was a fucked up thing to do. I'm supposed to be the adult, not you. So look, you can stay here and be your big-mouthed self, just like you've been doing. Or you can apply for another host family, if you want. It's up to you."

I knock over a broom as I lean toward the gap in the door. Peeta responds faster than I expected. "I…no, I…I'm not a quitter. I don't want to leave."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean you want to _stay_. It's not the same thing."

"To me, it is."

I let go of whatever it was I was squeezing. I shut the closet door and then slump onto my back on the hard floor, remaining there until morning.

At breakfast, Peeta and I bodysurf on a smooth, evasive wave, him straddling the line between muddled-looking and not looking my way at all, and me sharpening the edges of my scowl. During the week, we forge boundaries and ban eye contact—any contact—between us when we're in the same room. Which isn't easy considering the small cottage we live in. We exist around the noise each of us creates—coughs, pages turning, doors closing, spoons scraping against bowls. We become familiar with one another's routines and perfect the art of avoidance.

It's against everything that Haymitch wanted, and oh, he notices it, but he wisely keeps his feelings to himself. He takes what he can get out of us, which is me too unnerved by a kiss to think about misbehaving and Peeta being Peeta, exhibiting forced liveliness.

It's humiliating how many nights I spend replaying the tremble of his mouth. I give my pillow a workout, burying my face into it, especially whenever I hear his midnight footsteps venturing to the bathroom or the kitchen. Months ago, I would have intercepted him in my underwear and backed him up against the nearest counter or the humming refrigerator with a single, penetrating, intentional stare.

It wouldn't work anymore. He knows me better now. His _I can't_ has given him power, the kind that keeps me rooted to my bed, too afraid to hunt him down in the shadowed corners of the cottage. To him, I'm a regret. And probably far from his mind as he falls asleep.

He keeps up a regimen of talk at family meals. He's a social magician and manages to earn a few laughs from my mother while they cook together, the sound of it beautiful but piercing, driving me to the beach for refuge.

Finnick isn't about to complain when I tell our group that Peeta won't be joining us anymore, but my girlfriends take the news differently. Jo crosses her arms in annoyance, and Tigris does her share of pouting.

I sneak out of the cottage when nightmares erode my sleep. I swim alone, suspecting that Peeta has yet to brave the waves on his own. The thought sends an embittered spike of satisfaction through me.

Anger is another emotion that I welcome. It battles the shame of my attempted tongue-thrust and my uncle revealing to Peeta that I'm a pathetic wreck in need of saving. I refuse to be that. I won't be weak because of him. I can survive fine without his friendship.

kpkpkpkpkp

The humidity goes into hibernation, and the tide rolls deeply into December. On Christmas Eve, Haymitch hauls home a squat pine tree imported from America. My parents could never afford one, so Primrose was always delighted for Haymitch's holiday visits. A tree has been his customary present since I could walk. The dark needles and the wintry scent of foreign forests cause my eyes to prick with tears. It's my second Christmas without her.

My mother decorates the tree with threadbare red balls strewn from yarn and a cord of green lights, while Haymitch supervises from his end of the couch. Peeta walks in from the kitchen, drying his hands with a rag. His Christmas gift to my family is a District Twelve meal. Haymitch had taken Peeta to every market in Panem to gather the ingredients he needed, while the rest were mailed to him from his family.

The tree brings a smile to his lips that I'd like to staple shut. With his flour-dusted apron, his ruddy skin, and his jubilant expression, he looks adorable. Like someone assembled by elves in the North Pole.

Once the tree is lit, the food is ready, and Buttercup is contentedly swatting at a spool of ribbon on the floor, I set the table. Haymitch disguises his pleasure over my glossy manners with jibes, goading me to retaliate and stick out my tongue at him.

I'm setting a fork beside Peeta's plate when his own hand appears out of nowhere. I tense at his nearness. It's the closest we've been to each other since the kiss, and it heats the right side of my body.

"S'cuse me," he mumbles, leaning over to light a single candle at the center of the table. We stare at the flame whisking to life, which should create a festively romantic atmosphere but feels more like witchcraft.

When Peeta moves away, his hand brushes mine. We jerk back in such perfect synchronicity that anyone watching might assume we rehearsed it.

"Sorry," he says.

 _Sorry_ , I gesture.

Peeta introduces us to a meal that smells of new things. A duck surrounded by glazed carrots, potatoes smothered in a creamy sauce, a crimson-colored jam that he calls cranberry-thyme chutney, and a cracking loaf of warm bread. It's a feast. Haymitch and Violet clap. My applause lags behind, I'm so preoccupied by the girth of the bird. I've never tasted duck before. Meat is an extravagance that Peeta must have paid a fortune for. I'll wager that he got it from Greasy Sae's stall.

Peeta blushes as he sits across from me. "I wish everything could be fresher. My dad sent canned cranberries and gravy, and the herbs were prepackaged."

"No, it's perfect," Violet assures him. "Thank you."

"I don't know if I'll remember what it all tastes like. It's been so long."

Peeta says this with anticipatory giddiness, and I know it's because his home has joined us for dinner. I'm oddly glad for him. And oddly stung.

A knock sounds from the front door. In response, Haymitch drops his fork against his plate. "Maybe I'll need a drink, after all."

I'd told him that Finnick might make a brief stop here. Giving my uncle a look, I rise from my chair and answer the door. Finnick is standing on the porch, a tray in his hands and a rogue smile on his face.

He admires my gray dress. "You look pretty."

_Hi._

"I've got something for you."

_Come in, then._

Following me to the table, Finnick is greeted by Violet's open arms, Haymitch's disapproval, and Peeta's silence. Both boys regard each other curtly and without enthusiasm. Though I don't know what Peeta has to be sour about. He's the one who threw a punch where it didn't belong. He knows that Finnick wasn't trying to hurt me.

And I told him that Finnick and I relate to one another's past, that I'm not being toyed with, that I'm with him willingly. What more does Peeta want to hear?

"Can't stay long," Finnick announces.

Haymitch coughs a word into his napkin that vaguely sounds like _good_.

"My family's waiting on me, but I told Katniss that I'd bring over some oysters if we had a strong catch today." Finnick frowns, noticing the North American spread, which is probably getting cold. "What's all this?"

"Peeta made us a traditional supper from District Twelve," Violet beams.

Finnick's eyes slither toward Peeta. The salty whiff of shellfish competes with the sweet-tartness of carrots and cranberries. This is getting ridiculous.

And why does this bother Finnick? Honestly, I resent these bull-headed boys for looking at the food like it's some form of competition, especially when my family doesn't usually get this much to eat. It's a luxury, not something for their egos to spar over.

When neither boy speaks up, my uncle slaps his palms on the table and lies, "Well, sorry to hear you've got to leave, Finn."

I inconspicuously kick Haymitch's heel. I don't need to deal with yet another surly male. Not on Christmas.

I grab my notebook and walk Finnick outside. Once there, he stares at his feet with a grin that lacks his usual dimples.

I widen my eyes, prompting him to speak, and he shakes his head. "Sorry about my moodiness. It's just...I'm not in one piece tonight. Christmas was Annie's favorite holiday."

Oh. I'd forgotten.

 _Are you okay?_ I write.

"Seeing you definitely helps. You're easy on the eyes."

His flirting is half-hearted. Even in this moment, he's trying to keep up that veneer. That flippant veneer to hide the scars, which are the same ones I wear. For all we know of one another, and for all that we call ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, that's not what we are.

In fact, it's only now that I realize how foolish it is for us to call ourselves that at all. We're allies. Grief partners. That's what we are.

"That scene in there—" he nudges his chin toward the house. "Your family looks better. They seem to like Peeta. That's a quite a fancy supper he made."

He searches my face for a reaction. Peeta does make my family happy, and I owe him for that. When we were friends, he made me happy, too. And tonight, his meal and proud smile combated the humiliation that I'd been suffering over kissing him, his thoughtfulness attracting those notoriously warm feelings towards him again. As usual, I hadn't seen it coming.

I'm not certain how well I conceal my thoughts in front of Finnick because some sort of ailment creeps into his features. Something akin to doubt. "It's still us, right?" he asks. "You and me?"

Is...is he worried that he's becoming less essential to me? Because of what he saw inside the cottage? Peeta and I haven't been speaking, and Finnick knows that. But perhaps there are other signs he's noticed that I have not.

Not to mention, we haven't slept together in a while. I keep making excuses not to. It just hasn't been working with him anymore. Truly it hasn't been working, hasn't been the same, since Peeta got here. I'm not sure what to do about that.

I dodge Finnick's question like a bullet but kiss his cheek to reassure him, then send him on his way. As I come back inside, Peeta's gaze follows me to my chair. When I glance up, he offers me a cautious smile, pulverizing my intention to stay mad at him for being as brusque to Finnick as my uncle. I swallow a forkful of cranberry chutney, and it sparkles on my tongue.

I take another bite. _I like it._

His smile widens, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Pleasing him makes me blush, so I look away, hoping he doesn't see. _  
_

We unwrap gifts at midnight. Peeta goes first, tearing open a box filled with presents from his family. He receives packages of cookies and chocolates, a sweater, and a cookbook.

There's also an elegantly-beribboned gift from his girlfriend, Madge. The golden paper is fancier than what Peeta's parents used to wrap his gifts. She's sent him a sketchbook bound in orange leather. The material is soft and probably made from the shaved newborn ass-flesh of an endangered species.

And there's a card that says "Waiting for You" on the front. As he reads it, I flip my braid over my shoulder and pretend that I need to pee, discreetly plucking a tiny box from under the tree and making my escape. Safe in my room, I chuck the box onto the bed and then plop myself beside it, wondering how long it will take him to finish reading the card before I can go back in there.

I feel stupid. I'd buckled and gotten him a gift, but it's not made of inhumane leather or immortalized in gold wrapping. I can't give it to him now.

"Hey."

Twisting around, I find Peeta radiating light in the doorway. "Can I come in?" he asks timidly.

I hesitate. He comes in anyway and perches at the edge of my bed, fidgeting with a flat package tied with a green bow. "Um, I wanted to give this to you. When we were alone." He holds out the gift. "Merry Christmas."

I catch myself staring at the present like it's going to attack me. Carefully, I accept it and take my time unwrapping the paper.

It's a framed photograph of me. It's from the day we hiked through the forest and he snapped a candid photo of me dipping my toe in a waterlily pond. In the photo, I'm made of delicate, faded lines. It looks like an old picture, but the details of my outfit prove that it was taken in this decade. It's the first photograph I've ever seen of myself.

Something inside me spreads its arms and floods me with warmth. And I know. I know how I feel about the boy sitting next to me. All at once, it becomes clear.

I look at him. _Thank you._

"You're welcome," he says, grinning. Then his gaze finds the box that I'd dropped on the bed. "What's that?"

Like a three-year-old, I snatch the thing and hide it behind my back. But Peeta leans to the side, trying to peek. "Is it a gift?"

I shrug.

"Is…is it for me?"

Sighing, I slap it into his hand. Peeta opens the box and plucks out miniature glass vial containing a white, fuzzy seed that looks like a parachute. He politely conceals his bafflement.

Heat creeps up my neck. I grab my notebook and write, _It's a dandelion seed_. _From District Twelve._

His head snaps up.

 _To remind you of home. So you won't miss it so much_.

This species of dandelion is native to his country. Leave it to Greasy Sae to import the impossible for me.

He stares at me, his irises an infinite, reverent blue. "I don't know why to say."

I set down my notebook and quirk an eyebrow. _Finally._

Peeta's sheepish laughter fills the room. My shoulders shake with mirth.

Haymitch interrupts, appearing in the doorway and holding up the phone. "Peeta. It's Madge."

Her name vacuums up his laughter and strangles my own silent chuckles. Peeta once told me that his exchange organization wanted their students to get the full, uninterrupted experience of being abroad, so the organization recommended limiting phone calls with family and friends. He's talked to his parents only a couple of times over the months, but this is the first time he's been able to talk to his girlfriend.

There's a pause as he considers the phone. He glances at me, and I glance away, feigning preoccupation with my nails while I bleed internally from the heart.

He takes the phone, then waits until Haymitch leaves before holding the receiver to his ear. "Madge?"

A feminine voice squeals from the phone, glittering with affection and excitement. The sound reminds me that I'm an interloper. I'm glued to the mattress although I should have left him alone.

"I…I miss you, too," Peeta answers, his voice flustered and uncertain. "Yeah, I just opened it. It's amazing."

She says something that sounds flirty. I set my photograph on the bed, next to the dandelion seed tucked in its vial, and get up to leave.

Peeta notices immediately. He holds the phone from his ear, looking like he's about to ask me to stay but then thinks better of it. "I'll be out in a minute," he tells me, I guess so that I can relay the message to Mama and Haymitch.

"Sorry," he says into the phone. "That was…no, that was…um, my host sister."

My feet grind to a halt. The resentment flares up like a brushfire, wiping out the timid phase that I've been stuck in. I grab my notebook, tear out a sheet of paper, crumple it into a ball, and pitch it at him.

Peeta rears back. "What—"

More paper. More balls. He fights to listen to Madge while I throttle him. Then I go for my pillow and whack it against his side repeatedly.

"Hey!" He sees that I'm not playing and sets his jaw. "Stop it!"

"Hello?" I hear Madge say.

Peeta quickly apologizes and asks her to call back in five minutes. The instant his hands are free, he wrenches the pillow from my grasp, seizes my forearms, and hisses, "Katniss. I said, _stop it_. Now."

I launch at him, knocking him backward and straddling his waist. I grapple to fasten him to the mattress, but he performs a trick with his body and flips me over. We're a furious mess of arms and limbs rolling across my bed, wrestling to pin the other down.

Peeta wins. He lands on top of me once more, his chest beating against mine. He realizes that he's between my legs and blinks. Inwardly, I sigh from the bliss of his coarse zipper sliding over my panties, the immaculate feeling of his weight on me, and my thighs flanking his waist. We gaze at each other, our lips so close, his eyes glittering. Oh, how I want him to move his hips, to roll them into me.

He won't. He won't ever do that.

I shove him away and leap off the bed, fixing him with an expression that belies exactly what we're both thinking, what this moment just proved.

_I am not your fucking sister._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year to everyone!

__   


_Peeta_

After Katniss leaves, I run my fingers through my mussed hair—she had pulled it a few times. Even before she attacked me, the words had sounded wrong. They slipped out because I was cornered between Madge's voice and Katniss's very existence, and because Madge wanted to know who I was talking to, and the only neutral, acceptable, uncomplicated and girlfriend-friendly answer was "host sister."

It hadn't felt like I was wrestling a sister. The paper air raid and pillow fight unleashed the beast in me, and when Katniss's groin bucked against mine, the thoughts eating away at my mind weren't sibling thoughts. Thankfully, she pushed me off her, preventing other hidden parts of me from waking up from hibernation.

When Madge calls back, I worry that she can see through the phone and figure out what happened. But then I notice that the tiny vial with the dandelion seed Katniss gave me is missing. As an innocent bystander, it had become a victim to our wrestling match and fallen off the bed.

I crawl on all fours across the room, hunting for it with the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder. Buttercup appears in the doorway, his bright marble eyes watching me paw at the floor boards. I monologue my girlfriend to death about the things I plan to draw in the sketchbook she sent me, until I find the vial hiding in the shadow of Katniss's overturned sandal.

I slump against the wall in relief. "I really love it," I say while rolling the glass-encased seed between my fingertips.

Madge sighs happily, and I realize that she thinks I meant the sketchbook. She's proud of her consistent ability to pick out the right ones—this is the fourth one she's given me (last Christmas when we were still just friends, my birthday, my going-away present, and today). My praise pleases her and effectively detours potential pouting over having to call back in the first place.

She says she misses me. She says that I sound different. She cries a little. I feel slightly panicky and profoundly responsible, so I renew my boyfriend vows.

She says she loves me. I say, "Me, too," but when we hang up, I do a mental recap of the semantics and know I've come up short. Madge deserves better than "Me, too," but I won't get the chance to do it over until my next letter or one-hour bus trip to the Internet café. A rare phone call with my girlfriend after a four-month drought has been ruined.

I deserve better than Katniss's island-infused tantrums. But the dandelion seed stands in my way of holding a grudge.

That and her chronically doleful mood. It possesses her right up to New Year's Eve, as the family sits out on the porch, waiting for the clock to strike twelve and listening to Old Man Sae strum his guitar—he and his wife are celebrating with us.

Katniss is luminescent in her long, clingy, cottony dress, with that slim braided lock hanging among her loose hair. It would be nice if she'd pass me the shortbread cookies that she keeps hogging. My parents sent me a boxful, and it's not that I want to eat one—it gives me a happy thrill seeing her gobble them up. It's just that I want her to remember I'm here. Pass me just one cookie.

But it's still a nice night. We all sing songs—well, Katniss claps—mostly old Panemian tunes from a century ago. We drink fruity concoctions that fizz in my stomach. I tell everyone about my country's tradition of New Year's resolutions, but I take a little too long with my explanation because eventually the group bursts into a collective but playful _arggg_ and tosses napkins at me. It makes me laugh.

I catch Katniss biting her fingernail and watching me, the cookies forgotten in her lap but the hunger still on her face. In the true spirit of cowardice, I pretend I don't notice.

She hands me the cookie box. Our fingers brush. God.

Greasy Sae criticizes Haymitch in an amusing, motherly way about how many drinks he's had, but he denies it. Violet plays with Buttercup, stroking the cat's back and scrunching his face. Katniss grins fondly at them.

As Old Man Sae begins to sing, his wife waves her hand in the air. "Aye, stick to playing, my love."

The group chuckles. I like it right here. For the first time, I feel at home with these people. A boulder forms in my throat as I realize that I'm a part of them. I belong. On this lazy, delighted night, I'm perfectly content.

And then Haymitch belches into my ear.

"Gross!" I shove him away. "What the hell?"

Old Man Sae and Katniss crack up. Katniss has her hand over her mouth—it's an adorably sad sight.

"Aye, Haymitch." Greasy Sae slaps him upside the head. "You're supposed to set an example for Peeta. What's the matter with you? Be romantic."

Haymitch sets his heels up on the porch rail. "My niece should sing."

Sae gives him another reproachful look. Her husband stops playing. Katniss glowers at her uncle.

"You can sing?" I ask, mesmerized by her for the thousandth time.

She blushes. _No, I can't._

"Katniss has the prettiest voice I've ever heard," Haymitch announces. "She wanted to be a singer."

Her eyes widen in mortification. My mom used to put me on the spotlight too, also not in a good way.

Haymitch's glazed eyes signal that he's having too much fun with his bottle. "Is this New Year's or not? Come on, girl. Sing."

Katniss shakes her head, openly hating him.

"Haymitch, if she doesn't want to—" Sae begins.

"She _should_ want to," he argues. "Start the new year right by making herself useful."

"Hey," I snap. "Cut it out."

"What's it to you, Peeta? Don't you want to hear her? We all do. This silence crap has gone on long enough. Sing something, girl. You might actually realize you miss it."

"That's enough." I reach out to steal his glass, but his foot presses into my chest and pushes me back onto the front stoop.

He grunts. "You almost made me spill my drink. On my brand new pants." He slaps his thigh. "Violet, tell them. Tell them about Katniss's voice."

Violet had been spacing out and enjoying Buttercup's company, but now she blinks, picking up on the conversation. She comprehends the magnitude of the moment and glances between everyone like a little kid who's been asked to choose between Santa and the Easter Bunny.

Katniss stares at her, tense but hopeful.

"I...well...her father used to sing. It was magical," Violet says. "And Primrose was only a toddler, but she used to imitate him." She gets that far-off look again. "I think we've had enough singing tonight."

Katniss's face falls. The sight of it tempts me to break the porch in half.

She takes it out on her uncle by snatching his glass and pouring the contents into a bush. He lurches to his feet, doing an angry dance and cursing up a storm while the rest of us watch in shock. Katniss tosses the glass to the ground and stalks barefoot down the road. I've lost count of how many times she has taken off to avoid stuff.

She wants to be alone. Probably. Definitely.

Or maybe she'll go to Jo and Tigris. Or maybe she'll go to Finnick. Either way, I'm the last person she wants to see after that. I'll just end up with a handful of sand flung in my face. That's the best I can hope for. She'll be fine. She can take care of herself. She was doing it long before she met me...actually no, she hadn't been taking care of herself that well, from what I've seen and been told. But she's a tough girl...isn't she?

I should make _myself_ useful. I should look up the definition of _tough_.

I unstaple myself from the porch and leave the house. I leave despicable Haymitch and impossible Violet and the innocent Saes behind.

I go after Katniss.

It's instinctive, the direction my feet take me. I almost expect to see her footprints ahead, a permanent trail of them embedded in the ground and showing the way. Not that I'd need it. I've taken this walk enough times that the darkness is a sidekick instead of a hindrance. The air is its usual salty self while the surf pounds out its rhythm, giving the sand a thorough beating. She's huddled by the dunes, the spot that we'd unspokenly christened as our own during that narrow window when we were friends. I lower myself next to her and wait for a sign that she wants me to back off, but it doesn't come.

She's so small, hugging her legs against the breeze. It's cool at night, though not uncomfortable, much tamer than what District Twelve has to deal with in January. Snowfall and flurries and frostbite are myths here. Still, the chill makes me wish I were a blanket, a soft one that would fit around her shoulders.

I take off my cotton sweater and cover her with it. She flinches but accepts the warmth, then twists her face and nuzzles her nose against the fabric. Each time I think she can't burrow any further into my chest, she does something uncensored like that to prove me wrong. It's crazy how much access she has to these parts of me. Sometimes I can't take it. Most times I wish she'd stop.

She's about to say something when we hear a commotion, the high-pitched, squeaky-toy whine of little kids fighting. It's then that I notice the shadows of people—couples and families—scattered throughout the beach, choosing to celebrate the New Year by the water. The clashing voices belong to two little girls fighting while their father—I guess they're sisters, and I guess it's their father—tries to play the mediator. One girl points to the other and declares, "She pushed me!"

I can't see the father, but I imagine he looks like my dad, of the pink-nosed, silvery-blond-haired variety, even though those traits are virtually non-existent in Panem, except for the tourists who come to marvel at the island's pristine and wild beaches, and the handful of citizens who live up in the north shore. In a tired voice, the father asks, "Why did she push you?"

"Because I hit her," the girl answers.

Watching them, I chuckle and catch Katniss silently doing the same. Her shoulders ripple, and her teeth show whenever she laughs. She gazes at the trio wistfully until they stroll away from us. She could have escaped here to think about her sister, to miss her in private, and maybe try to communicate with her in some way. I forgot to consider that.

"Am I an intruder?" I ask.

She shakes her head.

"Good. It might be easy for you to walk away all the time, but I can't do that. I don't want to leave you."

She stares at the ocean. I go off on a tangent. "I expected to go numb or immune or something to the sound of the waves, like at one point I would get so used to them that I would stop hearing them. But my dad swore that the sound would always be in the back of my mind, no matter what I was doing here, but I'd doubted him. The idea seemed pretty hectic anyway. But Dad was right. I still hear the waves. It's reassuring."

I inhale, and then keep going. "Compared to a lake, I also thought the ocean was a monster, you know? That it didn't let anyone actually swim because it knocked people around like punching bags. But the ocean is actually a different kind of peace. It's an exciting one that lives out loud. The lakes in District Twelve are like sleep. The ocean is like waking up."

Do I ever shut up?

She sniffles and wipes her nose with her arm. I'm scared that she's going to cry, because I can't endure the idea of Katniss crying, how the tears might smother her face yet make her look even more gorgeous. The possibility is mildly terrifying.

"Just tell me that you're all right. Let me in," I say.

She swipes sand off her leg in frustration, implying that of course she's not okay. If I really want to be a friend, I need to show that I'm willing to hear the ugly truth.

Her notebook is at home. If I persist, how will she answer? With her hands? With looks? Which one am I hoping for?

Her head dips, a sheet of dark hair blocking her profile. I reach out and cup her chin, forcing her to face me, my thumb skimming her cheek and causing her to squeeze her eyes shut as if pained. Her brows crinkle together. A milky-gray sheen illuminates her features, exposing lovely flaws like the pimple in the crook of her nostril, the oval chicken pox scar on her chin, and the bra strap peeking out of her dress, threatening to slide down her arm. I can discover all I want about her, but these details all pale in comparison to the one thing she holds back.

"You can talk to me," I promise.

Her eyes squeeze tighter.

"I want to hear your voice," I plead.

I'm being unfair. I wish she'd hold it against me and bite the hand that's touching her.

"Please say something," I whisper.

She pulls away. I should have known better and am about to apologize when she gives me a wry smile and writes in the flat of sand between us. I squint to decipher her response in the dark, using the waning moon for light.

_No one needs me._

The words grab onto my stomach and yank. There's no self-pity in her words, only resignation and acceptance. It's like she believes that if she's ever really going to get noticed, or valued, she'll have to use her voice. Even I've stooped so low as to request it.

It's more than that. She's more than that. She has to know it.

"I do," I insist, leaning closer. "I need you."

Katniss looks upset, her face crumbling with doubt.

"Look at me," I command.

Struck by my tone, she does. I've learned that I have to be firm if I want her cooperation.

"Now listen to me," I say. "I miss our friendship. I miss it all the time. I didn't like you at first, but I like you now. I'm sorry that I punched Finnick...actually I'm not sorry about that, but I'm sorry that it screwed everything up between us. I'm sorry I let the kiss get in the way and then avoided you. Yeah, you've been ignoring me too, or scowling at me, but I don't care. I'm still sorry I didn't own up to my half of it and just confront you, talk it out. I didn't face the music."

She frowns.

" _Facing the music_ is when you…it means…it doesn't matter," I amend. "Katniss, you're wrong. I'm desperate to hear your voice, but not for the reason you think. Yeah, I want to know if it sounds as beautiful as I think it does, but I care about you. I don't want you to lose that part of yourself. You have a right to speak. You have a right to that."

I take her hand. "But still, we agreed to protect each other. So I'm here. I want to be here with you. You can be quiet for the rest of your life. You can speak with flags or maracas or smoke signals or airplane banners or in Morse code, and I'll listen no matter what." I scoot closer. "You think no one needs you? Your friends need you to share stories with them. Haymitch needs you to keep him from being lonely, to keep your family together. He can't do it on his own. Your mother needs you to brush her hair and be her daughter."

Her chin wobbles.

"And I...this year isn't the same for me without you. It doesn't measure up. I need you in it. I need the girl who taught me to swim without making me feel like a loser. I need the girl who convinced me to take an Evil-Knievel leap off a lagoon cliff. I need the girl who helped me invent different lives for myself around a fire. I need the girl who dances and plays with waterlilies in the forest and stages protests. That girl is brave and caring. She has the strongest will I've ever seen, and I want to know her like I did before. I want her to know me…" My breath dies a million deaths as she presses her pinky against my mouth.

"Please," I say against her skin. "Be my friend."

Her sad gaze ventures down to my chest. She wipes away her last words and writes in the sand. A single letter.

_K_

She points to it, then presses her fingertip against the _M_ charm I'm wearing, then looks at me imploringly. And it breaks my heart.

"Oh, Katniss," I whisper.

This is the one possibility that I've avoided since our incredible kiss. That she doesn't want to be friends. What she wants is more.

At first, I thought she'd kissed me for the same reason she kisses Finnick, as some deluded form of comfort, nothing beyond that. Which had stung. But after receiving the dandelion seed for Christmas, after seeing her face fall when Madge called, after witnessing the outrage and hurt when I referred to her as my host sister, and after being throttled by the yearning in her eyes and the blush on her cheeks when I landed on top of her, it dawns on me now. That kiss had been sincere. It had been real.

I've replayed that moment over and over again in my head. We hadn't gotten very far, but that kiss affected me more than any other kiss has. I felt it in my knees and in my blood, the sensations bursting like firecrackers. Since then, I've been wondering what the rest of her mouth would taste like, how it would feel to mold my lips to hers. And if things were different, I would grab her face, right now, and find out.

But I can't. How do I explain that? How do I even begin to hurt her? How do I do it without hurting myself?

Katniss closes the distance, and it's the stray lock of hair curling across her parted mouth like a warning that alerts me. Her hand curves around my neck, her lids on the verge of fluttering shut as she slants her face toward me. Her lips nearly swipe mine by the time I think to lean away from her, ignoring the tremor that races up my body from the near contact. I brace my hands on her shoulders, keeping her in place. "I just...I just love my girlfriend."

Don't I? It's not like how I think of Madge has changed. Doesn't that mean I love her?

Disappointment and mortification contort Katniss's features. As she turns away, her bra strap chooses that moment to slip and land on my thumb. I'm tempted to draw it back up, secure it place, take care of her—but also to find out if the material is soft.

Of course, I won't. I feel like a giant asshole when I should be feeling noble for refusing to be one of those guys, a two-timing alpha hound that nails a willing girl in spite of the fact that he's taken. Yet I want to wipe that look from Katniss's face and fix it, fix _her_ , make everything better between us. Something about my choices feel wrong, but I can't figure out which one I regret: what I just did or what I chose _not_ to do.

Is there a choice at all? Madge is steady. She'll be there when this year is up. She's enduring and solid like a charm made of silver.

Katniss is not steady. She's this whole island, water and fire and wind and earth. She's special and can't be duplicated or molded, but she's as temporary as that initial in the sand. I'll be without her someday. I'll be far from here. Even if I weren't already with someone, it couldn't work. This would never happen anyway.

I'm so fucking confused.

There's a horrible pause in which I can barely meet Katniss's wounded gaze. People always rely on the eyes to determine emotion. On her, it shows up everywhere. The worst part is her mouth. That's what scares me the most. The quiver, the teeth and tongue working in tandem to substitute for her voice.

Cheers erupt from the people on the beach. They sing and celebrate with bottles of alcohol and sparkling wands that look like handheld comets or dandelions receiving electric shock therapy.

It's midnight. Katniss turns away from me, but I can't stand it.

"Katniss," I whisper, "I don't want to be with anyone else on this night. Just you. I meant it when I said I need you. I do. I've missed you so much."

For an instant, Katniss resists my words. Then, with a sigh, she scrambles on top of me, straddling my thighs and crushing me in a tight hug. She hides her head in the side of my neck. Not to get something out of me, but to give something to me. To share the moment.

I'm too stunned to object, and I'm not sure I will—not right away—once I get over the high of having her this close. I let it happen. Wrapping my arms around her, I hug her back. If kissing is impossible, and if separating is intolerable, and if this is the best we can do, I'll take it. I'll spend the first seconds of this year holding her. Until it's time to let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A preview of my new one-shot, "Poet," will be posted on my tumblr this Sunday ;) I wrote it for streetlightlove's Smut-to-Save-Lives charity (S2SL). Lots of great authors are participating, so if you want to read their work, be sure to donate!

__   


_Peeta_

She's tipping the scales in my heart. I try not to think about it but end up thinking of nothing else. I lay in bed and attempt to get comfortable, punching my pillow to fluff it, but when that doesn't work, my hand reaches underneath, searching for the dandelion seed. Rolling the vial between my fingers, I think about my host sister. Who isn't really my host sister. Who's light-years from being my host sister.

Winter break is over, and I need sleep for school tomorrow, but instead I think and think and think. I think about when she's in the shower, the door slightly open so I can hear the splashes of water and see the steam swirling into the hallway. I think about her clothes scattered on the floor, covering the areas where tiles are missing. I think of her naked body, which I've already seen, and how it might look all wet and soapy, as she stands in the miniscule tin tub. I think about her braid. I think about how she might sound when she sings.

I think about the dress she wore on New Year's. I think about the way she gazed at the sisters fighting on the beach. I think about the ragged look on her face when she drew the _K_ in the sand and waited for my reaction, asking if there was a place left inside me for her. I think about her weight on my lap and her arms locked around my shoulders and her warm breath on my neck. I think about how much I wanted to keep holding her and how important it was to stop.

I think about walking to class with Katniss, her hand tucked into mine. Would it feel right? Would I regret it later, once we have to say goodbye for good? Ah, shit. I really, really am thinking about this.

I hear Haymitch snoring. Thankfully, he's a lump, so when he gets home late, he's too tired to pay much attention to my sleep-talk. That's what he says, at least. If anything comes out of my mouth that does strike him, he spares me the humiliating details.

Above me, a gauzy banner of dust stretches from the ceiling to an adjacent wall. I smell fresh air on my pillowcase because the family doesn't own a dryer and hangs everything outside. I feel the vial's smooth glass surface against my fingertips and the change in temperature where my toes peek out from under the blanket.

I'm thirsty. My parched tongue forces me out of bed and down the bunk steps, which creak under my weight. I'm short and bulky, but Haymitch is wiry, so he should have taken the top bunk. But he'd probably slip on the steps while intoxicated and break his neck, so then again, maybe it's for the better that he didn't.

The cottage has a habit of wincing and groaning when I walk through it. Mom likes to comment that I stomp around like I'm in a wrestling tournament, even though I don't stomp, not out of anger or anything…I mean not at all because stomping is an exaggeration, the wrong choice of word for the way I move, except for when I'm in pain and limping. But I'm not limping on a regular basis, so actually it's just that I walk a little loud and…ugh. Even in my head, the engine keeps running.

Chugging a glass of water fixes the dry mouth. Quenched and hydrated, I _not-stomp_ back the way I came, toward my room.

At first, I mistake the thud for my own step, and I wonder if Mom's right after all. But then I pause in the hallway and hear it again. It's not me. It's coming from Katniss's room. A girlish whine sneaks out from beneath the door, which multiplies into another and another. She sounds like a scared little girl.

Forget about making it to my bed, because the thudding intensifies in volume, intruding on my rationale and giving me hero feels. I move quickly to her door and open it. The room is small enough that I can see everything up close and personal, and the sight is disturbing: Katniss is having the equivalent of a street brawl with her sheets.

Her whimpers have me rushing to her side, where I kneel and grab her shoulders. "Katniss," I whisper. "Katniss."

Her eyes fly open. She lurches up in shock, her chest pumping for air.

"It's okay," I say, steadying her. "It was a bad dream. You're okay."

The current from the ceiling fan causes her bangs to sweep against her face. _You're…you're here?_

"I'm here."

_You're real?_

"I'm real."

_I'm…I'm just…I don't…_

"Shh." I smooth her damp forehead, spooked by the terror that I'd seen aimed at me and surprised that the sounds of her having a nightmare haven't woken up Violet.

After Katniss calms down, I tuck her in. "You're safe. Get some sleep."

I rise to leave, but her hand latches onto my hip. _Wait._ She uses pressure to draw me to her, flipping open the blanket in invitation and shimmying backward. _Stay with me?_

Katniss is half-naked, in a black tank and polka-dotted underwear. I'm half-naked, also in a tank and shorts. Not to mention her mother is only a few feet away.

But Katniss had a nightmare. She's better now, though she's still a little shaken, and she matters to me. I fumble and weigh my options, which are non-existent. I'm not going to abandon her like an asshole. I'm wide awake as it is. Her plea conjures only one type of response, one word that's best kept inside my head. This would be the perfect time to create a manifesto: _I will not cave to the Silent but Beautiful One._

As a secondary precaution, my _M_ charm could be used as a talisman against the _K_. But that would be stupid and lame—and stupid. I doubt it would work anyway.

The bed sags under me, squeaking as I shuffle to find the right position. I'm in the middle of getting adjusted to the situation when Katniss's curves slant against me. She drapes an olive-skinned arm over my abdomen and rests her cheek on my chest, inspiring me to cradle her. Her orchid scent and the way she fits to my side is a comfort, although all hell is breaking loose across the mountains and valleys of my conscience. My thumb glides over her shoulder while I shush her. She sinks into my frame, small and sweet, her temperament made of so many highs and lows—sometimes it seems like I'm the only one who sees them, because I'm the only one she lets in. Which can't be true since I don't deserve that privilege and, theoretically, we aren't the only people in this bed.

We both have significant others. Though I've never had to be there for Madge in this way—I don't know if she even has nightmares because she always arrives to school bright-eyed and glossy-haired and rested, and the most angsty kinds of things that we talk about are pop quizzes and college applications.

Katniss bunches my tank in her fist, pulling me from my thoughts, urging me to come back to her. In response, I kiss the top of her head.

On her nightstand is the photograph that I took of her by the waterlily pond. I stare at it for what seems like forever while she drifts to sleep. I'm still staring at it when she wakes up about two hours later. It's still dark out, but she looks more peaceful. We gaze at each other for the longest time. Is it right for us to feel this close? Snuggling like this, I'm sure I can tell her anything, no strings attached, no compromises or conditions or embarrassment, which is weird seeing as we've been walking a tightrope with each other.

"Your nightmare was about your sister, wasn't it?" I venture.

Her eyes mist. She grabs her notebook and pencil off the floor and writes, _She drowned_ _. I wasn't there. I relive it over and over._

"It's not your fault."

_I didn't protect her._

"No, but you can't protect everyone. Superheroes can't do it, and neither can mythological gods, or great fictional characters who fight in wars, or soldiers, or real-life heroes. Doctors can't save everyone. Firefighters can't. And you know what? I hate to break this to you, but you're a sixteen year-old village girl who's only in her third year of Survival at school. You're not almighty. You're not supposed to be."

_I wasn't talking about everyone. I was talking about my sister._

"Did she think you were a supreme being?"

Katniss startles.

"Did she rely on you all the time to keep an eye on her?"

She grins warily as if recalling a memory.

"Or was it the other way around?"

Her chin sinks into my chest in defeat. _Primrose was the superhero. I was the mere mortal who almost slipped while cliff-diving. She's the one who bandaged my sprained ankle._

"Was she a good swimmer?"

_Better than me and Finnick._

"Katniss, it's not your fault. You think she'd want you to feel like this? I'll bet she doesn't blame you, could never blame you. I'll bet she admired you and tried to imitate your singing too—don't tell me if I'm right, just listen. You shouldn't feel guilty about all these things, especially not for being alive or having a voice. Staying this way, so quiet, is an insult to her. Don't do that."

I'm worried that I've gone too far, but then she fixes me with a meaningful stare. _Why don't you like me?_

I hadn't expected that. If she only knew how completely she engulfs my thoughts. "I do like you. I _more_ than like you," I admit. "I guess you like me, too."

She nods. Why had I announced the obvious? Is it because I wanted to actually see that nod, like a confirmation?

I brace myself. "What about Finnick?"

_I've told you about Finnick. It's not the same with him.  
_

"Jo said that you have mutual histories," I prompt, wanting to understand but not believing that I actually will.

I'm surprised that Katniss doesn't hesitate when she writes about it. _He loved a girl once. Her name was Annie. I knew her from school. She died over a year and half ago._

God. I'd had a feeling. "What happened?" I ask. **  
**

_A nest-full of tracker jackers got to her when she went hiking in the forest. She veered off the trail to explore and went too deep. She was found a day later._

We learned about tracker jackers in Survival. They're one of the island's more dangerous natural predators, along with jabberjays, snakes, and some sort of baboon mutt that lives in higher elevations. Tracker jackers are like wasps, only their stings can cause powerful hallucinations, and sometimes even death.

 _Finnick spent the whole summer locked up in his boat. When school started, he walked around the hallways like a ghost._ Katniss pauses in her writing, then continues. _Then Prim died that Fall. And I knew how Finnick felt. We hadn't talked much before that, but he did hear about what happened to my sister. And in the spring, when the weather warmed up, he joined me one morning for a swim. And every morning after that. And last May, right before he graduated, we discovered how else we could comfort one another. We make each other forget._

"Does it work?" I bite out.

_It used to. It was working during those first months. Until you arrived._

"You're not right together. You may think you're helping each other, but you're not. Ignoring the pain won't erase it."

_That's very easy for you to say.  
_

"You deserve more," I argue. "A boyfriend who matters to you in deeper ways."

_Maybe. But I could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve the one boy that I want._

In the dark, she stares right at me. I'm trapped, yet I don't want to be anywhere else. Holding her close, I'm giving her mixed signals, the same way she gave me mixed signals in the beginning. But I can't help it. I can't help wanting this moment to last, with her in my arms. No girl has ever looked at me this way, like I'm the last sunset in existence. No girl on earth is Katniss Everdeen.

I swipe her hair aside. "That's not true. I'm the one who doesn't deserve you. You're boundless."

_Stop saying things like that._

"Why?"

_You know why.  
_

"You started it. And anyway, I mean it. You're worth so much more than Finnick Odair."

 _Hey!_ _I care about him. I care about him very much._ She sets down her pencil and then raises her eyes to me. _But he's not you._

I need to conceal what this does to my heart and stay on a platonic course. "Katniss, there's no one like you either."

She challenges me with a wry but sad smile. _Our meanings are not the same._

"I know, but it's not an easy thing to respond to. It's not like our Q and A game. We're not swapping favorite colors."

_Green._

"Orange."

_I know._

I jerk my head back. "How do you know?"

_It's the color of your backpack and the sketchbook Madge gave you. It's the color of that shirt you wear all the time. It's the color you use the most in your drawings._

"God, Katniss…"

 _Finnick isn't you_ , she repeats. _It hasn't been the same with him, because of you. If you would have me, I wouldn't be with him._

 _"_ If I'm not faithful, then I'm no better than my mom," I blurt out.

She frowns. Dammit. What did I just let slip out?

She waits for me to elaborate. The story tumbles out of my mouth, recapping that day last year when I saw my mother with another man. I tell Katniss what I've never told anyone else.

Sophomore year. Spring semester, just before Madge and I got together. Going out for ice cream with friends. I remember the air-conditioner snarling, the plastic chairs, the smell of vanilla. Clove rehashing to Marvel how someone's supposed sexual-racist-religious remark in Drama II _had so obviously been_ directed at her. I remember the Leeg twins finishing each other's sentences.

I remember ordering a banana split. My mother stepping into the ice cream shop, her arms around a man who wasn't my father but another basketball team parent. Cato Calloway's father.

Cato Calloway. Tall. Trim. Destined to be voted "Most likely to be on a Wheaties Box." The guy who liked giving me a hard time at practice because of my height.

When Mr. Calloway's lips touched my mother's, I buckled into a chair in the corner. I bent to untie and retie my shoe, then looked up and collided with my mother's gaze. She held a cone of papaya sorbet, even though I'd only ever seen her eat regular ice cream.

I ran out of there. When I came home hours later, the strange apologetic smell of veggie lasagna, my favorite, filled the hallway. Over dinner, my brothers made lots of noise while Dad kept talking about the weeds choking our backyard plants. Mom and I never glanced at each other, but I wanted to stab the life out of my dinner with my knife. I never knew that she liked sorbet. For weeks, I couldn't stop looking in the freezer, waiting to find our vanilla bean ice cream to be replaced with something else entirely.

All those times she reminded me how imperfect I was, how I'd never be enough for her like my brothers were, mainly because I was the youngest and the most like my dad. All those times when she set impossible standards that I strove to meet, while she couldn't even manage to stay loyal to her own family.

Katniss lets me recover from the story before writing, _I love my sister the way you love your papa._

"Yeah," I whisper. "I couldn't protect him from Mom's betrayal. I still can't. He doesn't know what I saw." I feel Katniss's warmth, and it softens the rough edges of the memory. "He'd never lie. He'll always be faithful. I'd rather be like him than her."

She sucks in a breath. _There's more to you than just your parents._

Seeing the words on paper, in her handwriting, I almost believe it. "There's more to you than Primrose," I counter.

_We miss them._

"Yeah. I miss peanut butter, too."

She chuckles quietly. The mood lifts.

"What would _you_ miss if you went to another country?" I ask, imagining her in District Twelve with me.

She interprets the question differently as she bundles herself against me. She gestures between us. _I would miss this._

This. Now. Us.

All I can think is, that it isn't hypothetical. Eventually, she _will_ miss this. I'll miss it too.

 _Will you come to me again? To sleep?_ she asks, hopeful.

"Are you sure? I can't give you more," I caution, denial twitching in my throat, because huge chunks of me want to give her more.

_I'm sure. I_ _'ll take what I can get._ _I want these months with you._

I've broken her heart enough. Plus, there's a huge possibility that my girlfriend wouldn't be happy about me literally sleeping with another girl. As it is, I feel the material of Katniss's underwear rubbing against my boxers, and I've spent a significant amount of time trying not to get hard. Yet I can't stay away either. I care about her, and if I can help close her eyes and defuse a nightmare, that's what I'll do. So I give in.

We're careful about separating by dawn. It becomes a routine throughout January. We're apart during the day, making a game out of stolen glances across the classroom. Or when no one is watching, we tease and play. I tug her hair on our way home from school, and she baits me into one of our fork wars when we're supposed to be washing the dishes after a meal.

At night, after Haymitch leaves for his night shift and Violet has conked out, either Katniss sneaks into my bunk or I sneak under her sheets, where we wrap ourselves around each other, confiding secret and silly thoughts until she drops into an easy dream.

There's something appealing about having this clandestine connection with Katniss. Like if we keep it to ourselves, it will become impenetrable enough to stop time. This way, she and I grow back together. She never tells me what she dreams about, but she wakes up happy. I like being with her when it happens.

One night, she catches me off guard when she says that she's heard me sleep-talk. I knew this was a risk, but I'd taken it anyway. Internally, I still freak out that I might have mumbled something illicit. "What, uh, did I say?"

 _You said "Always,"_ she writes.

Always. Definitely a word that's only possible in dreams.

The morning of February first, it hits me. I leave Katniss and creep into the living room, too antsy to return to my own bed. I pace for, like, five minutes. I stare out the window as the sun drags itself over the island and consider drawing something, _anything_ , but I know I won't be able to concentrate.

I stare at the kitchen. Maybe I should make breakfast for Haymitch since he'll be home in half an hour.

A tap on my shoulder makes me flinch. Katniss is rubbing her eyes, her face craned up at me in confusion. I wonder how long she watched me space out.

"Today's the first," I explain. "I've been here exactly five months."

Katniss gets it. It's the halfway point of my exchange year. I'm here from the beginning of September to the beginning of July. Not exactly a full year, but that's how things go with my organization.

"It just feels strange," I say. "Do I look different?"

She cocks her head and examines me. Her expression brightens with an idea as she tousles my hair. _Your hair is shaggier._

Okay. That means, yes.

She, on the other hand, takes this as an opportunity to give me a trim, assuring me that it's purely to enhance what's new. Gluing me to a chair, she circles me with scissors. The morning light from outside warms my cheeks…or maybe it's the nightgown she's wearing, which shifts each time she moves. Not to mention that my eyes are level with the swells of her breasts.

Her knees knock gently against mine, her legs wedging themselves between my thighs. I clear my throat and focus on the clay pots in the corner of the living room, which contain a bunch of well-endowed, sexually-aroused looking flowers, their centers protruding and sprouting at the tips.

In between delicate snips here and there, feminine fingers comb through my hair, toying with my bangs and layers. My eyes fall closed at the sensation of her nails lightly scratching my scalp. With my lids shut, I'm more attuned to her body heat, the sounds of her gown rustling, and her feet padding over the wooden planks. Her unsteady breathing.

She pauses behind me, and I swear, my spine vibrates in anticipation. She runs her hands up the back of my skull. That's when a strange, needy sound tumbles out of my mouth. She does it again. I'm a goner.

The phone shrieks. I jump out of my seat and Katniss drops the scissors. It could be Haymitch, so I grab it, my grip basically squeezing the life out of the phone. I'm winded and nearly shouting when I answer, "H-hello?"

"Peety?"

I freeze. It's Madge. But…but…she's not supposed to call except on holidays. I feel as though I've just been caught with my head under the bride's dress right before the processional.

"Madge!" I croak over-enthusiastically.

Katniss, who was in the middle of picking up the scissors, drops them again.

"What…um…hey," I say.

"Hi!" I hear the beam in her voice. "I know it's early for you, but I couldn't wait. I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. It's—I'm just surprised."

"Good, because it's a day for surprises."

Oh. I know that excited sound. I'm fluent in it. It's the sound of Madge when she's about to burst with news. A sense of foreboding washes over me. Katniss stands in a knoll of my blond hair as I lock eyes with her.

My girlfriend's words blast my eardrum, like confetti being shot from a cannon. "I'm coming to see you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com


	10. Chapter 10

_Katniss_

"Here's how you deal with that bitch—" Jo begins, but then Tigris whacks her before she can give me advice.

"You don't know that she's a bitch," Tigris argues.

"Didn't you hear what Katniss said? The girl booked a flight before even talking to Peeta about it. She's a self-indulgent, invasive rich American bitch."

We're lying on our backs in a circle, on our turf at the beach, with our heads close together as we gaze up at the starry sky. When Jo had caught onto my crankiness and asked what the hell was bothering me, I gave in and wrote them everything, from the moment I kissed Peeta to this morning when Madge called. Which was followed by a long silence, then Tigris's romantic sigh and Jo's wrath against a girl she doesn't even know.

I hadn't wanted to tell anyone. I wanted to keep my time with Peeta tucked close to my chest, but I needed someone to talk to about Madge. I'd needed to recruit my friends, though I disagree with Jo. Most likely, Madge merely assumed that Peeta would be euphoric about her visit. Maybe he is. He's seemed adrift ever since.

She's not a bitch. Peeta wouldn't choose such a girl. He wouldn't wear her initial.

Writing that to Jo is pointless. I don't understand why she approves of my kinship with Peeta when she used to glower at him. But I do want to find out how to keep myself from breaking when I see the lovers reunited. And that means enduring the rest of her rant.

"Peeta wasn't supposed to get visitors, but here she comes," Jo prattles on, waving her hand. "And I don't care that nothing happens between you guys at night. You want more, and I'm betting he does too. You might not think so, but the moonstruck way he talked about you at the street fest proves it. That's why Madge is gonna hate you. She might seem sweet and perfect, but when she sees the island goddess that her boyfriend's been sleeping within fucking distance of, she's gonna peel off her face and reveal the true competition. And it's gonna have fangs that suck blood by the pint."

"I hate your portrayal of our species," Tigris says.

 _It's not a competition_ , I insist. _Peeta rejected me._

"On the outside, he did," Jo says. "On the inside, he's been swept away by you for months. So here's what you do: Be yourself. Be nice to the blond demoness with the fangs and the bat wings. And be sincere about it. Channel Prim's kindness and mix it with your spice, and you'll be irresistible."

"Smile more often," Tigris chimes in. "Ask Madge questions about herself."

"But be the fierce Katniss that you've always been," Jo adds. "Don't become a tame, withering victim. Don't let her weaken you. Don't let anyone weaken you. "

The last thing I intend is for Princess Madge to weaken me. What's scary is not knowing whether I'll be able to tolerate the sight of them as a couple. Her alone, I can take. Her permanently affixed to Peeta's side, and her mouth sucking on his, is another story.

Still, Jo's right. Shrinking isn't me. I won't let it happen no matter how I feel about Peeta, or how he doesn't feel about me.

In bed that night, I squirm against him. Truthfully, I hadn't expected him to join me now that Madge has slipped through the cracks and become a reality between us.

"What's wrong?" Peeta asks, as if it's a mystery.

Already my resolve to be strong is plummeting. I snatch my notebook. _Where will you sleep when she's here?_

Peeta hedges, staring at my hand on his stomach. In the dark, his cheeks look hollow, but his nose is still adorable. He agonizes over how to respond, but there's no need. The unspoken answer churns my gut. I'll have to watch them embrace. I'll have to watch him put his arms around her. I'll have to watch them kiss. And I will definitely have to spend my evenings by myself, my heart spasming while he spends his in her hotel room. They lost their virginity to one another, after all. Why wouldn't they fuck after five months apart?

I'll have to watch him come home in the mornings. I'll have to watch him be happy...well, that part is nice.

 _Are you excited?_ I ask.

"It hasn't hit me yet," he says with a neutral smile.

That's him, sparing me from the harsher answer. Irritation courses through me at the idea that I'm being pitied and protected. Katniss Everdeen is made of more durable material than that. I toss away my notebook, sick of using it when he can read my expressions better than anyone. I pinch his side.

"Ouch!" he squeaks.

_Do not lie to me to make me feel better._

"I'd never lie to you," he says, his eyes flitting between me and my sleeping mother.

I deflate. No, he wouldn't. I'm overreacting.

Peeta takes my wrists gingerly. The gesture strikes me. He has often reached for that part of me but then held himself back.

"When I met you, you wore handcuffs that chaffed your skin, all red and raw," he says. "I thought to myself, that it was the only place where you weren't strong. I wanted to touch you here." He strokes my wrists with his thumbs. "To make you feel better, or maybe to explore what a wound felt like on you, or both, I don't know. I guess I hoped that I could comfort you somehow and sort of confirm that you were more vulnerable than you seemed.

"But it was a mistake to think that I could fix you. Your wrists healed on their own. I know you're tough, Katniss. I mean, you're not inhuman. We all need someone to help us. But I know you can survive the truth, and I'll always give it to you."

_I do not want things to change._

I don't want to stop talking like this. I want us to know one another, to confess things and make jokes. I want him to babble more about words and art and this storytelling called fanfiction that he misses so much. I want to tell him more about swimming and the great big sea. I want to explain why I wish I could find the courage to sing again. I want us to be ourselves.

I don't want Madge to take that from me. To take him from me.

Peeta sees what I'm thinking. "Nothing will change," he promises. "I'll be busy with her, but I won't be far."

He cares about me. If he didn't, he wouldn't be here holding me every night, trusting me with his private, random, and wandering thoughts. He confessed that he likes me more than he should, but it's not enough, because cannot predict what will happen. There's only so much any of us can control. He's a faithful boy. A good, honorable boy like his papa. He'll show Madge whatever affection she needs, and that will be his priority.

I am not a fool, though suddenly I feel foolish. What am I doing? Finnick and I aren't in love, and my mind is elsewhere when he's on top of me, which is seldom now. But I assured him that our relationship is still intact. Yet I've tried to kiss Peeta, and I would do it again, if it were invited. I've flung myself at him. And I'm lying to Finnick about him.

Perhaps Madge coming here will be a blessing and a reminder of how things are supposed to be.

She's arriving during the spring holiday from school. Over the coming weeks, plans are made through phone calls and Peeta's trips to the north shore to email her. He talks to Haymitch about everything, rather than to me. I assume it's because he believes that I don't want to hear about it. He's right. Our communication is already yielding to more "important" tasks.

Only once am I in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens when Haymitch offers to take a room at the hotel since it's near his job, suggesting that Madge can share the bunk bed with Peeta. Before I can mentally put an arrow between my uncle's eyes, Mama grows nervous, claiming a fit of anxiety over Haymitch being gone and leaving her with three teens to answer for. Mama needs routine, so I could have predicted this reaction, though it still appears staged to me. Maybe she'd noticed the murderous look on my face, or the stricken one on Peeta's.

Either way, it put the option to rest. Peeta insisted that it was better for Madge to stay in the hotel instead. Relived, Mama's zone out after that, but I continued to stew.

During the hours when he prepares for his girlfriend's visit, I spend time with Finnick, Jo, and Tigris on the beach. I sharpen what I've learned in Survival in the woods. Cinna is pleased when he learns how seriously I take his lessons, though I'm unsure whether they will ever be put to use.

When I write this to Cinna after class, he laughs kindly. "That's the point," he says. "That's what we should hope for."

Thinking of what happened to Primrose, I hope so too.

February becomes March. March becomes Spring. On a Friday evening, turbulence fails to take Madge's plane down, and she lands on Panem Island safely. Peeta picks her up at the airport by himself. He leaves the cottage with flowers, a pale tint to his skin, and a quick glance at me. Last night was the last one we'll spend together for a week, and most of the hours were wasted by him fussing with the blankets and being eerily quiet.

I set the table for dinner, determined to stay focused. When I hear the cab pull up in front of our home, I look around our humble living room, instantly prideful and defensive.

"Is that her?" Mama asks, coming out from the kitchen. Together, we peek through the curtain, watching as Peeta gets out of the cab first, followed by a pair of feminine legs and pink sandals.

Pink. An impractical color for shoes, which can only be worn by someone who doesn't have to worry about owning only one or two pairs.

Madge appears beside Peeta, outfitted in a short, black dress. She's carrying a bag that has so many zippers and clasps that it could rightly serve as a medieval torture device. But she looks like she was made for him, with glossy blond hair that bounces as she walks and irises like melted gems. She's blessed with healthy skin. Her breasts are significant. I'm certain they've found their way into Peeta's palms many times in the past.

She smells the flowers Peeta picked for her and leans into him. He responds with a close-mouthed smile and obediently slides his arm around her shoulders, which makes her beam. Like a rainbow, she's perfectly shaped, massively pretty, and impossible to outshine.

"She certainly looks fancy," Mama observes.

 _Yes_ , I think.

"Pink shoes."

_Yes._

"Flamingo pink."

We chuckle, her nervously, me silently. The laughter fades as fast as it came. Her presence of mind is a magical moment that I can't fully appreciate right then, which sets me to a high flame. This is what seeing Peeta with another feels like. I'm an inferno.

Mama's hand comes to rest on my back, where she rubs me gingerly. An ache spreads over my skin. I can't remember when she last did something like this. Somehow she knows what this visit means to me. I grip the curtain, stopping myself from twisting into her arms.

A well-bred American girl is about to dance into our cottage. A girl who can afford to travel to another country to visit her boyfriend for only seven days. She's going to see our furniture, eat our food, and take up residence beside him for dinner. We had to borrow an extra chair from Greasy Sae just to fit five at the table.

I dash into my room and stare at myself in the mirror, the abrasive gray eyes and hair hanging down my chest. The faded orange dress that's too loose and frayed along the neckline. Issuing a frustrated grunt, I rip off the dress and tear through my drawers until I decide on something daring, something private between Peeta and me. Something that will feel like armor.

The front door opens. I hear Peeta introducing Madge to my family. Her voice is made of porcelain and sounds cheerful. I take a deep, all-consuming breath, smooth out my clothes, and strut into the living room.

"Ah there you are, Wild Child," Haymitch says. "Grand entrance as usual."

I'm not looking at him. I'm looking at Peeta, who turns and meets my eyes. "And this is Katn..." His blue eyes widen. They flit up and down my frame, recognizing my outfit. I'm wearing my favorite long green skirt.

And his white shirt. The one I stole from him.

I had smelled the newness of it that day, so I am confident that Madge isn't familiar with it. I've tied it at the waist and rolled up the sleeves. Peeta is dumbstruck, gazing at me like I'm the moon and the stars, with a magnetic light in his eyes.

Madge is unaware. She pivots, a greeting ready on her lips. Her smile flattens when she gets a prominent look at me. My feet are bare, and I'm probably the exact image of a plain and poor village girl. The inadequacy that I work to hide gets worse when I see the glint of a silver _P_ hanging from her neck. I may be wearing his shirt, but she's wearing his name.

My chin gets a bit heavier to hold up, but I manage. I will always manage.

Madge recovers her grin as she shakes my hand. "Katniss. Peety told me so much about you."

I raise an eyebrow at this. What does she consider "so much" when I'm a complete stranger?

Madge isn't surprised by my silence. That gives me one indication. He must have warned her in advance that I don't speak.

"Peeta doesn't have a sister at home, so this is a cool change for him," she adds.

Peeta flinches. What does he think I'll do? Plow her with a pillow for saying that? No. I'd only do that to him. I give him a look that says so.

Madge means what she said in earnest. I can tell. But I can also tell that she wants it to be true. I don't respond with any gestures since it wasn't a question. I meet her stare with a cryptic one of my own, the kind I would have given Peeta when I met him. By the way her smile remains stapled in place, displaying manners rather than sincerity, I doubt she's used to people treating her this directly.

"Madge is a cheerleader," Peeta blurts out. "Varsity. She likes big groups that make lots of noise. And she has two sisters, so she has a soft spot for people with no girls in the family. Except for mothers," he concedes. "Not that mothers aren't enough, but other girls to mix things up. Besides her, I mean. But she has two brothers also, so yeah, that mixes things up a lot."

Madge, my family, and I stare at him.

"Madge doesn't go for spicy food, Violet," Peeta continues. "Sorry, I forgot to mention that before you cooked. She and I have that in common. And other things too. We're both overachievers, and we're both into etymology, and we both like...bread...not all bread," he corrects. "Madge isn't crazy about pumpernickel. We're not eating pumpernickel tonight, so...but so long as we have other choices besides peppers and—"

Madge and I both touch Peeta's arm to stop him. She glances at me, and I pull back, acknowledging her territory. I don't want to surrender, but I don't want to make things awkward for Peeta either. I suppose wearing his shirt hasn't helped.

Haymitch claps his hands. "Can we eat? I can't stand seeing young people be cordial. It confuses me and disturbs the natural order of things. You hungry, American girl?"

Madge's laugh is polite. "Absolutely. Peety says the food here is amazing."

Hearing that nickname again, Haymitch's brows spike. _Peety_ , he and I privately mouth to each other in amusement, behind the lovers' backs.

We all sit around the table, which brims with the scent of burnt rice—Mama must have been anxious about this visit while she was cooking. The charred smell battles with Madge's perfume as she cradles herself against Peeta and does girlfriend things like play with his shirt collar. Peeta glances at me regularly, a tidepool of emotions collecting on his face. Guilt, discomfort, longing, concern.

Madge whispers something about his new haircut that makes him blush. I stab my pepper and relish the aggressive spark of heat on my tongue. I'm tempted to serve Mama, but she's clearheaded enough tonight to do it herself. _She's_ the one casting _me_ questioning looks.

Madge chews and pretends to enjoy the blackened rice. Peeta finally gets over his nerves and leads the conversation, helping her out whenever her District Twelve phrases confuse us. She talks about her family and school and compliments Panem's beauty. She's perky and eloquent. And she refuses to stop touching him.

I learn how it feels to be an outsider when she speaks exclusively to him about a school dance called Prom. I've heard of it, but I don't know the details.

"Glimmer asked Marvel," she says.

"No way!" Peeta chuckles. "Glimmer actually did the asking?"

"It was classic. She got him roses."

"That's so not her."

"I know, right? I guess you and I'll have to wait until next year," she flirts.

My head shifts back and forth between them. I cannot relate to prom. I have no relation to Glimmer and Marvel. For the last six months, Peeta belonged to this island. I now see his history somewhere else, with someone else. They grin at each other. They took a while returning from the airport, most likely spending some appropriate time alone first. They have so much to talk about, but my family is here. We're interlopers.

"So what made you come visit our boy?" Haymitch asks.

Peeta opens his mouth in a hurry like he wants to seize the answer and disguise it, but Madge cuts him off. "Oh." She fiddles with her fork. "It's our one-year anniversary."

My own fork clatters onto my plate. Madge and Peeta startle. Haymitch is too busy cramming his mouth with black beans to notice.

Mama takes the focus off my blunder by saying, "That's very sweet."

"I thought it would be the perfect time, especially since Peety also has Spring Break," Madge shares. "Mommy and Daddy adore him, so they gave me permission to come here, as a gift. Peety's super sentimental. We got together during his favorite season. He loves spring."

Peeta gives me an apologetic look, but my chest still contracts. I didn't know this little fact about him, because knowing everything would take longer than half a year. I feign preoccupation with my meal, behaving like I drop forks all the time and acting like every sentiment Madge reveals is unimportant. In short, I do a horrible job of being nice like Jo told me to be. Fierce, yes. Nice, no.

Peeta begins to notice my prickly attitude, willing me to either acknowledge him or at least be civil to Madge. But I can't. Never mind sparing him the awkwardness and making things easy on him. Instead, I brush off each of her attempts to get to know me.

"Peeta says you like to dance," Madge prompts.

I merely shrug. I don't like that he's been talking to her about me.

She waits for more. "Do-do you go to clubs or something?"

I scoff openly. Clubs? There's no such thing here.

Haymitch and Mama harpoon me with warning looks. Madge withdraws into Peeta, propelling him to drape his arm around her and pin me with a glare. I act like I don't notice, but he knows me better than that. While Mama engages Madge in conversation, I finally lock gazes with him, and we launch into a silent argument.

 _Why are you doing this?_ his eyes demand. _I know this isn't easy. And I'm sorry. But is it that hard to be nice to my girlfriend?_

 _What do you want me to do? Pinch her cheeks?_ I snap back.

_You could start by actually responding to her._

_Humpf. In case you haven't noticed, I don't have my notebook. I cannot write to her._

_That's an excuse. Use your hands. Nod. Smile. Can't you do that for me?_

_I don't owe you anything. I'll behave however I wish. This is my house, not yours! You're just a guest like her!_

Peeta falls back into his chair, hurt burrowing into his features. I don't know what possessed me to say that. I don't know how we understand each other without actual words, but we do. Our connection is so dear to me, yet I've severed it. I've crossed a line.

I want to take my outburst back, to reassure him that of course this is his home, but it's too late. His irises darken just before he swings his head away from me. For his part, he indulges Madge and spares me hardly a glance from then on. Nothing's going to change? Since we sat down, we've abandoned all pretense of being friends.

After supper, Madge offers to help clean up, but Mama waves her off while Haymitch relaxes before work.

"It's been a long flight," Madge hints. "Maybe we can stop by the beach on the way to the hotel?"

The beach. The hotel. Peeta's ears turn as pink as her shoes.

I look away as they lace their fingers together and say goodnight to my family. I barely acknowledge Madge's wave—"And I love your shirt," she compliments me—before the door closes behind them. They're going to the beach. My beach. _Our_ beach.

I wash the dishes with Mama, who briefly touches my shoulder. While the water scalds my hands, visions of Peeta and Madge flash in my head. The two of them holding each other on the sand, kissing passionately, then naked together in her hotel room, him picking her up as she giggles, draping her on the bed, her hands on his body, their legs entwined. Peeta making love to her, like he's done before.

Once the plates are dry, I make my escape. I can't hide in the closet with my mother and Haymitch awake, so I climb into bed. I cradle the picture Peeta took of me to my chest, because it's the only image that doesn't hurt right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Repeat after me: Everlark is endgame. Just keep doing that and we'll get through this. Promise!
> 
> Music: "Dust to Dust" by The Civil Wars.

_Peeta_

I hate that she's hurt. I hate that she has to see me with Madge. It's my fault. It hadn't felt right, sitting on Madge's side of the table instead of Katniss's.

Still, I hadn't expected her to be so acrid to Madge, or for her to gut me with her silent thoughts, glaring at me like I don't belong to her family, that the cottage isn't my home too. I guess I don't know everything about Katniss. Maybe that was just a fantasy of mine.

Madge wants to see the ocean before we head into town. We'd checked in her suitcases at her hotel's front desk right after she landed, so we have nothing to lug around now. It's a shock having her here, both my lives colliding, while I'm in the middle.

I lead Madge to the ocean, feeling the tug in my chest as we pass the spot where Katniss and I like to sit. Madge sighs at the waves, though the tide is pretty feral tonight, slamming into the sand. In her dress, she's elegantly casual, but it's weird. Has her hair always been so groomed, not a hint of frizz, even in this climate? Have her clothes always been so free of wrinkles? Has she always been this tidy and...perfect?

At the airport, I noticed a lot right away, things I hadn't noticed back home like her expensive and superfluous pink sandals, and her matched luggage. She hugged me back and wept dainty tears, but our kiss had been close-mouthed. Neat.

Seeing Madge after nearly eight months is like seeing a picture. There' s nostalgia as well as affection, but it's still part of the past, not part of the present. She moves in front of me and leans against my frame, and after a moment, I slip my arms loosely around her waist. She came all this way just for me. She's entitled to an explanation for Katniss's attitude.

I hang in my head in thought, torn between anger and remorse, yearning and hurt. The constant fluctuation of feelings drives me crazy. And I miss Katniss. After only ten minutes, I miss her more than I've ever missed my girlfriend.

Madge giggles. "You're so quiet."

"Am I?" I say.

"It's romantic here. Like in a movie. Has the island's allure tamed your monologues?" she teases.

"The ocean is loud, so probably not. Though the people aren't loud, so you could also be right. They rub off on me."

Madge's head tips down as she glances at her shoes. Her next words are measured. "Your host sister is stunning."

"Her boyfriend thinks so."

"Oh? She has a boyfriend?"

"She has a Greek god. Hey, I'm sorry about dinner."

"Don't be, " she says, but I detect a note of pleasure over my concern. "Katniss is probably just suffering from only-child syndrome."

This off-handed comment chafes at me. It also makes me think of Primrose.

Madge sighs. "It must be hard having no one, then gaining a brother, then losing him when his girlfriend arrives."

I stare at the violent waves. Katniss hasn't lost me.

"Being an only child makes a person needy," Madge adds.

"She's not like that, " I defend, more sternly than I meant to.

"I'm just saying that she can't be blamed for the way she acts."

I'm not a fan of that remark and feel like I'm betraying Katniss by letting it slide. Madge is my girlfriend, but Katniss is...my best friend.

"And in a small country like this, it's no wonder that she latched onto you," Madge finishes.

My arms unwind from around her waist. "Katniss doesn't latch onto anyone. "

"Really?"

"Really."

But what bothers me the most is that Madge might be right. Maybe that's all I am to Katniss, just someone to cling to. The possibility crawls into my stomach and settles there.

Madge turns and flattens her palms on my chest. She grins apologetically. "You're right. I don't know her. And why are we talking about your host family anyway? I missed you so much."

She rises on her toes to kiss me. I hesitate, then kiss her back, hoping to make up for everything that's happened, everything I'm feeling, everything she doesn't know. Essentially, I throw myself into the kiss, wanting to prove other parts of my brain wrong because Madge and I are right for each other. I owe her this moment, and nothing has changed, nothing at all. Isn't that right?

The force of my lips causes Madge to moan. I should be consumed and burning for her, but a flash of gray races behind my closed eyes. Frustrated, I kiss Madge deeper, but my body is numb and pulse is normal, although a kiss like this is supposed to feel like it did when...when... I pry my mouth from Madge's. It's early, I tell myself. She just got here, so it will take time to get back into the swing of things.

Madge flushes. "You've never kissed me like that before."

It's better not to take this as an insult. "Well, that's how I kiss now."

She presses herself against me. "Let's go back to my room."

The hotel is in the village square. Compared to the tourist resorts in the north shore, this minuscule building is a shack made of paper-thin walls with only a handful of rooms containing rickety beds. It's not exactly five stars, but it's the only thing near my host family's place.

I'm going to make a lame joke about the amenities, but then Madge starts unzipping her dress. Which spirals me into a panic. I sense the onslaught of a very long monologue coming on, a conga-line of words ready to pile out.

Madge drops the dress, revealing a pink ensemble of straps and lace, and steps forward.

"Not here," I say.

Madge frowns. "Why not?"

Digging up a reason takes a second. "It, uh, should be special. Under the stars, not under a chipped ceiling. We should wait, find the right place."

She laughs wryly. "If you wanted a different setting, we could have found somewhere at the beach."

I tap dance around that with a portion of the truth. "I hadn't seen the room yet."

"Oh Peety, I'm not genteel. This room is... rustic. Old world."

"But you're not." It comes out like an accusation, so I backpedal. "We should take it slow. We shouldn't rush this."

"It's been months."

"Yeah, but seeing this place puts everything into perspective."

Madge looks pouty and doubtful. "The first night back together is an ideal time to do it. It sets the pace."

"Frankly, I don't give a shit about those standards."

"Peety!" she lectures, disappointed. "What happened to your vocabulary?"

I frame her shoulders. "Don't you want it to be perfect for our anniversary?"

Perfect. The magic word.

Madge crosses her arms. "Well..." She relents with a wan smile. "It has been a long day. And under the stars would be nice."

She nestles against me in bed. She angles her head for more kisses, which I give her until she's sufficiently mollified. The sheets are coarse and the mattress squeaky, but she falls asleep easily. Meanwhile, I stay awake and long for the sound of Katniss, the feel of Katniss, the sight of Katniss. I fret, wondering if she's having a nightmare.

I get my answer the next morning when Madge and I walk back to the cottage for breakfast. Katniss is tending to her mother's garden, yanking weeds from the soil. She halts when she spots us and gets up, wiping dirt from her skirt. It's the same one from last night, because she hasn't changed, not even my white shirt, which is wrinkled and hanging off her like a curtain. Taking in her disheveled appearance, resigned expression, and the dark shadows beneath her solemn gray eyes, I come to the sinking conclusion that she hasn't slept. The knowledge cleaves me in half.

God. What the hell am I doing?

The three of us linger awkwardly by the front porch. Madge slips her arm through mine. "Hello, Katniss," she says.

Instead of issuing another unfair attack, Katniss musters a nod. Then she faces me and offers a carefully manufactured grin. _I am happy for you._

I see right through the act. But that's it. We've made our choices, if we had any to begin with, when we both have people who trust us and a time limit over our heads, an ocean that will eventually split us apart. I feel her slip through my fingers the way water would.

After an unnerving breakfast—Katniss doesn't join us, electing to disappear into the bathroom instead—Madge chats with Violet at the table. I go into my room to grab a few things I'll need while showing her around the island. And on my bed, I find my white linen shirt returned to me, painstakingly folded but still wrinkled.

kpkpkpkpkp

She wears an orange flower in her hair. It's a waterlily, the smallest one that I've ever seen, a type that can only be found in Panem. Peeking out from behind her ear and framed by her dark hair, the flower is the first thing I notice from across the square.

Since it's Spring Break from school, and I've been staying at the hotel, this is my first glimpse of Katniss in three days. She's wearing a new dress, or most likely something she borrowed from one of her girlfriends, strapless and dyed a rebellious red color, the hem split into ribbons, like flames fanning around her thighs. She's glowing and pretty and fearless, radiant compared to than the last morning I saw her.

She's not alone. As the band plays, she dances with Finnick, their bodies strung together. He spins her away from him and then whisks her forward, her leg and skirt slashing the air as she twirls. Their arms flick out and do a complicated series of movements, winding and tangling around each other, then fluidly breaking free from the web. They've had practice with one another, from way before I came here.

All I can do is stand by and watch. The thing is, Katniss didn't tell me there would be another protest about the fishing permits. This is the third one, if I count her solitary attempt back in September. Jo and Tigris are backing up the band, shaking their hips and two sets of maracas. Mrs. Trinket stands in a corner, chirping at Cinna. Gale Hawthorne is laughing with a bunch of other guys.

It's like everyone knew to be here except me. I may have been busy touring the island with Madge, but Katniss could have told me what was happening. The fact that she didn't is another blow, like she's shutting me out, or she really believes this isn't my business since, as she put it, I'm nothing but a visitor.

Well, she couldn't have thought that I wouldn't discover it when the protest is happening right outside Madge's hotel. My girlfriend squeezes my hand and gasps at the night's setting the second we step out of the lobby. We'd been planning on catching a cab and then taking an evening walk through the more touristy north shore, where the merchant class lives. But Madge loves parties, which means she'll want to stay here. The musicians, their exotic rhythms, and the dancing throng beneath the overhead cords of light guarantee it.

Madge is riveted. Most likely she won't be as cozy with the atmosphere when she learns it's an illegal street fest. I'm about to explain the situation when Katniss and Finnick abandon the crowd. They find a table, where she perches on his lap and grins at him, steering my thoughts off course.

What did I expect? For her to pine over my absence, in addition to the nightmares she might be having? No way would I want that for her.

I'm shredded anyhow. I guess just I just expected her to miss me like I've missed her. Evidently, this is a glimpse of how it will be when my year is up—everything going back to normal, with her life full of music and the ocean and Finnick.

My jaw locks. Her silence will still be there, though. The prediction gives me a validated feeling, which means that I'm a jerk, because it's wrong to wish that on her. She provokes me to think in un-Peetafied ways.

"Oh," Madge says. "Is that Katniss' s boyfriend?"

It's a rhetorical question, so I'm saved from having to answer. My girlfriend is doing her best to sound casual, but her awe is clear. Finnick has a magnetic effect on girls.

Katniss chooses that moment to glance around the area and see me, her expression faltering. Turning away, I find Madge gazing from me to Katniss and back again. I offer her a practiced smile, gaining a soft one in return.

She wiggles my elbow. "Well, um, aren't you going to introduce me?"

My stiff legs lead us to Katniss's table. On our way, people cast Madge looks of interest. Many of the villagers know me by now, but with Madge as a new addition, they're obviously trying to decide whether she's a visiting sister or my sweetheart. They've been speculating since she arrived, but even Greasy Sae has left us alone. The islanders aren't nosy.

When Katniss realizes we're heading toward her table—I remain impassive because I'm still mad at her and want her to know it—she tenses and maneuvers closer to Finnick. And when Finnick catches sight of me, his face tightens, his arm slinking possessively over the slopes of Katniss's shoulders.

However, his eyebrows shoot up once he notices that I have a girl with me. Didn't Katniss mention Madge to him? Well, it's Finnick. I'm probably the least popular topic of conversation with him.

Katniss bobs her chin at Madge, formal and reserved. Madge mumbles a noncommittal, "Hi." **  
**

"And what have we here, " Finnick inquires.

Mimicking his earlier move, I tuck Madge to my side. "This is Madge, my girlfriend."

"Well, well. The golden-haired girl worth waiting for," he says over the music. "Crossed the ocean to see your baker boy, have you? Welcome to the tropics."

Madge blushes. Finnick multitasks by flashing his teeth at her while riding his hand up Katniss's bare thigh, the action burning a hole between my eyes.

"Speaking of oceans, are you enjoying our beaches?" he asks.

"Oh, I..." She blushes even more. Soaking up the sun was one of the first things she wanted to do, brushing off my preface about nudity until we got to the sea and she saw how daylight altered the setting. Naked bathers no longer surprise me, but Madge had avoided peeking at anyone the entire time we were there.

She finally settles on, "The beaches are, ah, quite a sight."

For the first time, Katniss tries to be a good sport. She grabs her notebook and writes, _By the time you leave, you will be used to it._

"I doubt that," Madge responds in a trim voice. "Peety tells me that you taught him to swim."

 _I did_ , Katniss writes. _With pleasure._

"During the day or at night?"

_Does that matter?_

"Oh, I'm quite certain it didn't. I'm just curious about your tactics."

It happens too quickly to for me to react. Katniss hops off Finnick's lap, and Madge juts out her chin. The girls launch into a very blunt staring contest, with Katniss leaning forward, invading Madge's personal bubble and leveling her with a blank expression that speaks volumes under the surface. It fractures Madge's resolve and causes her to look away first.

Finnick watches them carefully and, to his credit, intervenes before I do. He slides off the table's bench and arranges his features into another cavalier smile. "Do you Salsa?" he asks Madge.

She blinks. "Do I what?"

"Peeta, what have you been depriving this girl of?" He offers her his arm. "I insist."

Madge hesitates and looks to me for permission. She's excited to dance, I can tell.

"Go ahead," I say.

Poseidon gets the same permission from Katniss, then leads Madge smoothly into the mass. I stare after them until I can't stand it anymore and turn to Katniss. Her notebook is there, but she's not. She's gone.

I find her hidden amongst the trees and flowering bushes across the street. Her dark frame is leaning against the bark of a palm. Overhead, the mockingjays tweet along with the music from the square. I think she came here to listen to them.

She's ethereal like this, her lone silhouette better than any photograph could capture. It would be so easy to sneak my arms around her from behind. Whether she'd let me at this point is questionable.

Without turning, she raises her arm and motions for me to join her. My face burns from having been caught. Standing next to her, I bury my hands in my pockets and watch her profile in the dark, the moon and the bulbs from the fest giving us sufficient light to see one another.

"Was I that obvious?" I say.

She regards me sideways and indicates my feet. _You have a heavy walk._

"That might be why I can't dance."

_A predator will detect a gait like yours._

"Are we expecting that kind of company?"

_If you hear a rattle, stay calm._

I'm not in the mood for games. "Have you been sleeping okay?"

She winces but nods.

"Fine, so we got that out of the way. You know I'm not happy with you for not...for the way you treated Madge that first night."

She bristles. _I'm sorry._

"That's it? So easy?"

_What do you want?_

I don't know. I don't know what I'm madder about. That I'm crushing her, that I'm equally crushed by what she said to me at the dinner table, that she was rude to Madge, or that I had the nerve to expect her to welcome Madge with open arms in spite of a broken heart, or that Katniss seems to be getting over the whole thing easily with Finnick, or that I'm jealous as hell of him, or that I've been holding that against her. I'm an asshole of epic proportions for expecting her to behave any other way toward this whole mess.

Katniss begins to stomp off. My hand shoots out and seizes her arm. "Don't," I plead. "Don't walk away. That's all you ever do."

It could either be my tone or my grasp that shocks her. She wrenches away from me and scowls, and of all reactions, that one digs a crater-sized hole in my gut.

"Katniss, I'm sorry," I say, ashamed. "I just don't know how to handle this. I'm...God, I'm sorry."

Her eyes thaw. _I don't blame you._

"But do you forgive me?"

_Only if you'll forgive me._

I'm mystified. "There are people who I don't understand with words. Yet without words, I understand you perfectly. Why?"

Katniss shrugs, my question unnerving her, or so I think until she offers me her hand. _You can dance fine._

She would know. She's the one who taught me.

I should be worried about Madge, who doesn't know where I am and has been left with a stranger. But Madge enjoys meeting people, and the villagers are all nice, and if anything Finnick will make her comfortable. Katniss trusts him, so I do too. I dislike him, but he's not the shark I once took him for. And I just want to stay here, near her.

With a balmy stringed melody seeping into the enclosure, my body is drawn to hers. She links her fingers over the nape of my neck while my hands land on her hips, and we sway from side-to-side, our chests and stomachs and thighs rubbing in a slow, sensual dance. She bites her lip, the innocent action spiking my pulse and rousing forbidden places below my waist.

We need a distraction. "You've been busy."

She nods. _Cray didn't think we'd try again._

"Will he arrest people?"

 _Ha! Of course. That can't be prevented._ _  
_

Except there's no room in Panem's jails, and the debacle will make his cronies tired. That's the point, I assume. Everyone's learning how to speak up and succeed, because of Katniss.

"You didn't tell me about this," I grouse.

She drops her gaze. Like everything else, I hear what she won't communicate: _I thought you would be too busy to come._

Needles prick my skin. "Oh, you think that highly of me, huh? That I wouldn't support you?"

She looks at me. _Madge is your priority now. Time with her is precious._

"I haven't been sleeping with her," I blurt out like an idiot.

This stuns Katniss for a second, but she recovers. Thankfully, she doesn't dwell on what I said. _I don't know how you are together, so I didn't know if this night would be an inconvenience to you. And..._ She draws a shaky breath that makes her breasts quiver against my chest. _I didn't want to be rejected._

A cracked sounds falls from my lips. "I would never do that."

Sadly, she shakes her head like I'm a lost cause. I've already rejected her many times, meaning there's no reason that I wouldn't do it again. The very possibility of my refusing her was enough to scare Katniss from asking me to come to the fest at all. The remorse swells in my throat.

"Katniss, you're never an inconvenience," I say. "You have no idea..."

She waits for me to continue.

"...no idea what you mean to me."

I get it, though. She would have had to seek me out, find me and Madge, which she must have wanted to avoid because...it's plain on her face. She wants me, but she's decided to give up. This dance won't ever happen again.

Our hands wander, hers traveling the length of my arms, mine sneaking toward the curves of her hips. How did I end up here in this country, on this island, in this lush alcove with this brave and strong girl? This girl who wears a waterlily in her hair, whose drugging looks render me stupid. A girl who...I stop deluding myself...who I have immeasurable feelings for.

I want her to be mine. I want to give her everything, make her happy, make her smile. I want to kiss her so badly. I want to press her against the nearest palm tree, hitch her leg over my waist, and coax a rusty moan from her throat. I want _always_. I want that more than anything. But I don't have the right.

We continue to dance, to crave what we can't have. I'm another person she's lost, yet there's no self-pity staring back at me. There's understanding. There's an end.

_You have my heart. But I get to keep my will._

"Katniss, please." I have no idea what it is that I'm begging for.

_We will finish this dance, and then I will go, and we will forget. Okay?_

"I don't want to forget," I whisper.

_Yes, you do._

Yes, I do. I'm not like my mother, a liar and a cheater. Whatever I feel in this private enclosure is a trance that will lift once I get back to the square. It has to.

Maybe it's the finality of Katniss's words, but something else suddenly bothers me, a bizarre sixth sense like a premonition warning me not to let her leave this place, not to let her go. It extends beyond the romantic sense, kicking up the protective side of me in spite of the whole thing being random and superstitious.

The trepidation vanishes when her hand steals up to touch my face, my eyelids falling shut at the contact of her palm against my cheek. Her lips skate across my ear and then pause to sweep the ground out from under me. Somehow I'm aware of what she's about to do, even before the birds stop to listen.

I suck in a mouthful of air and go still. A voice like fog, like a dream, drifts from her mouth as she whispers, "Peeta."

I splinter apart, helpless to stop her when she twists from my embrace and disappears back the way she came, taking her voice and my name with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com
> 
> Also, the deadline is approaching for streetlightlove's charity, s2sl (Stories to Save Lives), in which many wonderful Everlark writers have contributed fanfics. My one-shot "Poet" will be in the collection and won't be posted anywhere else, so if you'd like to read it on Valentine's Day, please donate and support a good cause!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: "Youth" by Daughter.

__

_Katniss_

I walk away before Peeta can see me cry. The tears stream down my cheeks, hiccups sneaking out from between my lips.

_Shh._

But it's no use. As love washes through me, I continue making sad, pathetic noises.

_Shh._

I'd forgotten what my voice sounds like. Hearing myself speak again had been akin to hearing a stranger talk, someone worn out and incomplete.

_But shh. Now._

As I near the street fest, I swallow the rest of my weeping. I scrub my face dry and take refuge in the color and music, retreating back to my spot on the table.

 _It never happened_ , I tell myself. I've been here the whole time. It's Peeta who walked away from the square. I never danced with him or said his name. I don't want him anymore. We are over now. We couldn't have ever been permanent. This would have happened anyway.

Finnick and Madge are still dancing. She's enjoying herself, learning the steps as my boyfriend teaches them to her. She thinks he's beautiful, that much is clear, but she's gracefully strict about keeping one hand poised on his shoulder and the other within his grasp. She shows little interest in letting her fingers roam. She's a trustworthy girl who will not betray Peeta.

My eyes burn. The aftertaste of his name lingers on my lips.

Stationed by the band, Jo and Tigris notice me sitting alone and look concerned by whatever expression I'm wearing. They start toward me. I shake my head, urging them to stay put.

When the music ends, Finnick detours to chat with Sae's husband, while Madge returns to the table. Her skin is rosy. In comparison, I must be a terrible sight because one look at me causes her to frown, her brows punching together.

"Where's Peety? " she asks, scanning the area.

Nonchalant, I flap my fingers, mimicking two legs walking away. Then I pump my thumb behind me, in the direction of the trees across the street.

Madge understands. Skeptically, she glances toward the alcove, then at me. "What else do you like to do besides swim and dance, Katniss?"

Her timing couldn't be worse. Against my better judgement, I snatch my notebook off the table and consider what sort of answer will fluster her the most. Then I write the truth. _Read. Daydream. Eat. Sleep. Fuck._

She flinches and valiantly sticks up her nose. It's impressive how hard she's trying to not be offended. "Well, I enjoy dancing myself," she pipes. "I've taken ballet and gymnastics."

_I know how to spear a fish. And skin a mutt._

"You see, I'm not blind. I know what you're doing."

 _I'm sure you'd like to know a lot more_.

"Your boyfriend deserves someone who won't lie to him."

I practically snarl. Judging any portion of my life is unwise. It does not sit well with me, nor will it end well for this prissy American girl. _Leave Finnick out of this_. _  
_

"Oh, I think you already have. But fine. Let's talk about Peety," she says, regal and superior and utterly calm. "I live ten blocks from him, did he tell you that? We've known each other since elementary school. Our families know each other. I've been there for everything that matters to him. I saw his first painting. I've cheered at every one of his basketball games. I've rallied for him in wrestling meets."

_I've kept him from drowning._

"Commendable," she concedes, fiddling with her _P_ charm. "Thank you for taking care of my boyfriend. He means the world to me. We've grown up together, so it wasn't a surprise when things sped up between us. In fact, before he even finished asking me out, we had our first kiss."

_He saw me naked within an hour of landing._

Madge's pretty blue eyes bulge out of their sockets. Her features scrunch together in outrage. "Why, you...you are...are a..." With a huff, she flounces off to find _Peety_.

My triumph is quickly outlived. Once she's gone, Finnick approaches. His brittle, knowing stare bores into mine, hinting just how long he was watching us. He offers me his arm. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

Dramatic as it sounds, I feel his intentions in my bones. I don't want to take the kind of walk he means. I know what he's going to do once we're out of earshot. And I'm selfish. As much as I burn for Peeta, I don't want to lose Finnick. I never did. I long to remain right here where nothing has changed and I still have a chance of redeeming myself to him. But Madge is right. I've overstayed my welcome in his life.

So I grab my notebook and loop my arm through his. When he leads me into that alley where Peeta punched him, I wonder whether Finnick has a sharper agenda for choosing this spot. He withdraws from me and leans against the wall, his shadow slanting behind him and narrowing into a vanishing point. More cords of light dangle above us.

"This is where I knew" Finnick says. "I was suspicious from the beginning, of any guy living with you. I questioned his loyalty to Madge right after meeting him."

I remember Finnick doing that. On the beach, he attempted to goad Peeta into admitting that he might possibly cheat on Madge.

"But I knew for sure that he liked you when he came charging at me like some little white knight. I'd expect no less, mind you. You're too magnificent to be treasured just by me." Finnick's reserved tone softens around the edges. "I just didn't want to believe that you felt the same way about him."

 _I didn't,_ I scribble. _  
_

"It would really help if you stopped lying to yourself."

_I didn't! I mean, I didn't know that I felt the same way back then._

"That's right. You usually don't see what's in front of you."

He couldn't be more correct. Until tonight, it seemed impossible that Peeta yearned for me, not while his porcelian girlfriend existed. Even so, discovering his desire hasn't eased the pain. It has intensified it.

"In the last year, the only times you smiled or cried were because of him," Finnick says.

My eyes must be red. It's clear that he's figured enough out on his own. I still need to explain some things, but ever since fate let Madge out of her cage, I've felt stripped of energy.

"Were you using me to make him jealous, Katniss?" he asks.

I shake my head. _No!_

"Because I thought we were a team. I thought you meant it at Christmas, when you promised me that it was still _us_. Just you and me."

The notebook falls to the ground. I drop my face into my hands.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

I nod into my palms.

"I'd understand if you were using me. I still remember what it's like to love someone."

I raise my face to his broken one. His irises glint in remorse. "After Annie died, I didn't know how to get better. But then...you and me...we found each other. I used you to recover." He laughs bitterly. "When Peeta came to live with your family, I got nervous. I was afraid he'd steal your attention and I'd be alone again. I kept you from being with the one you wanted."

_Finnick._

"This was never right. What we've been doing. I should have stopped this before it started, no matter what I felt." **  
**

The confession chips at my conscience. _I used you as well._

"That doesn't excuse me," Finnick says, his voice watery, defeated. "I'm so sorry, Katniss. I was so wrong."

I cross over to him. _Me, too._

The first time we were alone, I was nearly sixteen, self-destructive and angry at everything that got in my path. He was eighteen and had dared to block that path, his bronzed body strung as tight as a net, strong and unbreakable, which got my attention. What did Finnick Odair gain from hanging out with plain Katniss Everdeen?

He swam with me that day, both of us lost in grief and memories. Nothing happened, but from then on, the rhythm of my breathing changed for good. He was the first boy to ever find a route into my dreams. The first one to ever disarm my friends, earning his place in our dreamer world. The first one to touch me.

Neither of us have an excuse for what we've shared, how we've attempted to cope with things, how we convinced ourselves that sex could somehow help us forget our losses. We should have known better. But perhaps we can still learn. We can heal as friends.

My hands cup his face. And I give him a kiss. I kiss him chastely, lightly, sweetly, telling him goodbye. The difference between this moment and the last one with Peeta is that my eyes are going to stay dry once it's over. I'm crushed and ashamed, yet I'm free of tears.

The sound of Cray barking threats from the square forces Finnick and I to wrench apart at the same instant. We rush toward the commotion and halt at the lip of the alley. Cray and his uniformed minions are stationed at various points throughout the square, armed with black sticks. We'd known that Cray would break the street fest up again. But none of us expected him to do it this soon, with all the crime in the east shore usually keeping him busy.

As he and his snaggle-toothed cronies start closing in on the villagers, his high-pitched voice honks through a megaphone, its wide rim sprouting from his face like a snout. "Leave this area now. That's an order!"

The music trips to a halt and the dancers stumble over one another's feet. The crowd ripples with tension. **  
**

Cray sneers and tugs a pair of handcuffs from his belt. The police don't have enough shackles to do the job. But there are enough to punish a handful of people on everyone else's behalf, to make examples of them by locking them to the nearest surface.

He threatens, "Or we can detain you right where you are. Starting with your little mockingjay activist."

Me. The one responsible for all of this.

The villagers explode, their shouts overlapping through the square. The police move forward. The villagers stay put, pumping their fists in the air, hollering their own demands.

They're only yelling. Nothing else. It's okay.

Until it isn't. I'm unsure how things escalate from hazardous to disastrous, but they do. Someone bumps into someone else, and that someone thinks it's a push, and they push back, and this action gets repeated and repeated, spreading like a disease. Like fire. Bodies collide. Others scamper away. Two women get shackled together. Gale Hawthorne throws a punch at someone. An arm raises one of those black sticks and brings it down.

My gaze darts wildly across the chaos, hunting for Jo and Tigris. Where are they? Where's Cinna? Where's Uncle Haymitch?

Where's Peeta?

Cray snatches Greasy Sae's husband by the collar and forces him to drop his guitar, which gets stampeded by frantic feet. Old Man Sae used to entertain Primrose and me with that guitar. He's my neighbor and my friend. And he's being handcuffed to a pole.

I blink from my stupor and launch myself ahead to help him, but I'm instantly yanked back. Finnick's hands clamp around my waist as he hauls me away. I make it difficult for him, alternating between kicking and clawing at the air, and grinding my heels into the pavement.

_Let me go! Let me gooooo!_

Finnick hoists me off the ground, tosses me over his shoulder, leans over to grab my notebook and pencil, and then rushes down the alley while I beat my fists against his back. A short while later, I sag, pretending to have given up as the sounds of the uprising fade, replaced by the whoosh of the surf. The second Finnick is certain that we're out of harm's way, he drops me to the ground.

And I sprint in the direction we came from. And he catches me again.

I manage to get in a few smacks before he seizes my arms. "You can hit me all you want. You're staying right here. Katniss, it's too dangerous to go back."

I stab my finger into my chest repeatedly.

_I started it! It wasn't supposed to come to this. I owe our people._

"This isn't about you, remember? It's about everyone."

I pause. Peeta once said that very same thing to me.

"The fishing permits, the hunger, it's everyone's fight. You didn't force anyone to be there. It was our choice. You started it, but you couldn't have stopped it. You're not thinking straight, dammit! You won't do anyone any good by getting yourself trampled on. Nobody wants you hurt. _I_ don't."

 _Haymitch! My friends!_ I mouth.

"They can take care of themselves."

_Old Man Sae!_

"Old Man Sae knows what he's gotten himself into."

 _Peeta!_ my lips cry silently.

Finnick winces. "All right. I'll go back and help. I'll make sure he—everybody is safe. As long as you stay away, you can go from house to house and spread the word about what's happened."

Only adults came to the protest. Children were left with other family members and neighbors who volunteered to watch them. Many of them don't have phones. They need to be told in person.

I can't disregard the people who have no idea what's going on. Warily, I give in.

"Good, " he says, trusting me to keep my word. He collects my writing materials from the ground-they must have fallen during our scuffle-and offers them to me. He starts to leave, but then twists to give me one last kiss, rough and rushed. "Goodbye, Katniss."

_Goodbye, Finnick._

It takes all night trudging into homes and trying to reassure families with scrawled words on paper. It's difficult to explain, to find the right words, with the guilt churning inside me. My hands shake as I write. _There was a riot...Cray came too soon...but it will be...everything will be...too many people..I couldn't be sure...I don't know...Finnick said...yes, I saw your son...no, I didn't see your aunt...yes, if I see them...yes, I will tell them...I will look out for...I promise...I'm sorry..._

I have to erase and rewrite my thoughts so often because I'm not good at this. Peeta would be. He should be here.

As the hours pass, faces show up, meeting me on the road on their way home. They say it's over. Some people are in the hospital. The villagers who return are tired and battered, but they're proud, their smiles rising with the sun. They squeeze my shoulder, not blaming me for abandoning the scene.

When I spot Old Man Sae hobbling down the lane, I fling myself at him. He hugs me back as best he can with a broken wrist and a patchwork of bruises all over him. Finnick got him out of the shackles, but Old Sae doesn't say exactly how, nor do I care. My eyes water at the loss of his instrument, and I long to apologize for leaving him behind, for not helping somehow, for favoring my safety first. But he merely pats my cheek.

"There is enough music for us all," he says. "There is only one of you."

I promise myself that someday I will sing for him again. Then I probe him for information, but no, he didn't see Peeta anywhere. No, none of the people dragged to jail or carted to the hospital were him, or Haymitch, or Joanna, or Tigris, or Cinna. Old Man Sae believes Peeta wasn't in the square at all.

Once my visits are done, I race to the cottage. Mama is sleeping because she wasn't there to begin with, but no one else is home. I pull on the roots of my hair. Finnick said he would look out for the ones I love. I believe him, yet it isn't enough for me. I set off on my own search, checking back at the alcove where I last saw Peeta, then in the square, and then at Madge's hotel. I comb through the nearby trails that he's most likely to use.

Nothing. It's just past dawn. I can only hope that he and Madge went somewhere far away, before the mob even started, and haven't returned yet. My family and friends are missing, but they too may be wandering around.

My pulse slows as I force myself to breathe. A strange, numbing calm oozes into my blood, sedating my thoughts. Peeta is fine. They're all fine. I know it. Peeta is with Madge. He's safe.

My arms and limbs droop with exhaustion, but there is only one cure. One place. It's the same place, the only other place, that I might find Peeta. The sea is calling, so I answer it.

But he's not there either, I discover.

Standing at the beach, I stare ahead at the horizon. Primrose used to say that if either of us ever drowned, it would be her. I never believed that, nor that I was better at staying afloat. She was the one who conquered the waves, slicing through them, graceful as a dolphin. She made me proud. Not once had I doubted her abilities, foolish girl that I am.

It dawns on me that maybe my love for her is untrustworthy. Maybe it has obscured the memory. Maybe my sister insisted she would be the one to drown because she _wanted_ it to be true, not because she _expected_ it to be true. The possibility stalls me halfway across the sand. Why has it taken me this long to consider all the tiny ways in which she tried to protect me? Was I too preoccupied doing the same thing with her to notice?

She looked out for me. She was strong and self-reliant. I taught her to be those things, although it turns out that I didn't need to. They were already a natural part of her, like her wisdom and selflessness. She did not worry about herself in the water. She was too skilled for that. But the water found a way to take her anyway.

Maybe I could have saved her if I had been there, but maybe not. I couldn't have predicted what would happen. And I couldn't have controlled the sea that day, any more than I can control the beats of my heart, or this island's heart, or my mother's heart, or Finnick's heart, or Peeta's heart. I can't control the ocean, nor the sunset or the cliffs or the direction a mockingjay will fly. I can't control who loves me or who I love. I can't control whether people leave me. I can't control many things, so I need to stop trying.

Slipping off my sandals, I tilt my head toward the sky. I inhale the salted wind as it pushes against my clothes and hair, more aggressively than usual for this early hour. Because the sun has barely risen, I'm alone. Just me and my naked feet. And the bleached sand dunes rolling down the coastline, the blooming bromeliads, the palms, and the waves shifting from green to blue like the eyes of two very different boys.

I race toward the color, my legs pumping, building momentum the closer I get. My arms spread like wings as I hurl myself into the surf, sprays of water jetting around me just before I dive into an oncoming wall of water. Surfacing for air, I feel resistance as the ocean slams against me, then an invitation as it withdraws into the horizon, tugging me with it.

Though my dress clings to my thighs, making me a little less agile, I'm undeterred. I join the sea's rhythm and swim. I leave the heartbreak behind and swim. And swim. And swim.

And then I see her. I gasp out loud and accidentally swallow salt water as the sight unfolds before me. Bobbing ahead, amongst infinity, is my sister. My beautiful little sister.

My body gives out, causing me to slip beneath the water briefly. Shocked, I struggle to the surface just as a wave knocks me back down. The second time I recover, I expect her to be gone. But she's not. Her silhouette floats within reaching distance. So near. So very near.

My eyes sting from tears and from the onslaught of salt. No. It can't be her. It's impossible. Please no. Please.

_Primrose._

Although I didn't speak, she turns as if she heard me call out to her. When she sees me, a precious smile splits her face.

The scream begins in my spine and vaults into my chest and up my throat, but I plug it shut. This isn't right. It's not her. It's not real. I need to go. But I'm tired. Her smile makes me painfully tired, and her laugh transfixes me.

Happily, she shouts, "Katniss!"

She wants to play like we used to. She looks like she's in the mood for a race, but she has a head start on me.

_I've missed this so much._

I surrender to the vision, kicking hard, my body working to against the tide. With each stroke forward, I pray. _Don't go, wait for me, I'm coming_. Yet no matter how much distance I cover, she remains just as far away as she was when I set out. I'm failing to reach her. And worse, she's getting darker, her features blurring. In terror, I fling myself ahead, desperate to stop her from vanishing.

My side is beginning to ache. It tightens each time I move.

Then the ocean betrays me. It roars like an animal, flexing, cresting, and sweeping me underneath its wide, foaming mouth. Everything goes quiet except for the wretched, gurgling echo of bubbles. A mantra forms in my head. _I'm Katniss Everdeen. I'm sixteen years old. I'm most likely about to die. But I won't die peaceful or spent, nor will I die willingly._

I will die fighting. I flail, wild but disoriented and grabbing at nothing. As I spiral further into the well, away from my sister, away from every person I love, I think about finding my voice again. And how much I'll miss using it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to post today because, well, it's my birthday and I wanted to celebrate with you guys! I am astounded and beyond grateful by the response to this story. I read every review, and listen, and smile.
> 
> As for birthday treats in the name of Everlark, many heartfelt thanks to the illustrious Court81981 ("All for One") and the delightful Baronesskika ("All the President's Men") for the dedication chapters.
> 
> Also, some of my favorite people have gifted me with beautiful stories:
> 
> "Looking for a Lifeline" by Chelzie (WIP! Gypsy Katniss and small town boy Peeta)
> 
> "Reel Love" by the Court81981 (WIP coming soon! Everlark as Hollywood BFFs, with a special nod to my story "Rebel")
> 
> "And the Book" by iLoVeRynMar (timeless Post-MJ)
> 
> "Paradise Lost" by TomiStaccato (Everlark as Adam & Eve, which can be read if you donate to streetlightlove's charity s2sl)
> 
> You guys are stardust. I don't know what I'd do without you!
> 
> Until the next update, dear readers. *wink*
> 
> I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your sweet reviews and birthday wishes. You guys blew me away!

_Peeta_

Right after Katniss breaks our dance and leaves me standing there, I stare ahead in a daze. I stay that way, with her voice looping in my head, for minutes. Or maybe hours. I don't know.

"Peety?"

I whip around so fast that Madge takes a reflective step back, and I release a shaky, disappointed breath. It's Madge who's here now. Madge who said my name—but not really my name, so I shouldn't have expected anyone else. She still uses the nickname she gave me in middle school. It's never bothered me before, but now I wish she'd just stop calling me _Peety_. It's gotten irritating.

But God, the sound of my actual name would also feel wrong coming from her. It should be coming from another pair of lips, from another intonation, one that's made of smoke and silver and the sea. A voice that came and went too quickly. So quick that I miss it already, and am scared that I'll never hear it again. It's the only voice that I want saying my name.

But she's gone. Back to Finnick. And I deserve it because I'm a fool.

My choice is standing just inside the thicket of trees, the moon outlining her blond hair and hourglass waist as if trying to remind me that I'm dating an angel, not an island wildflower. That's what Katniss is—a waterlily. She belongs to someone else like I do.

My choice is pristine in a white dress and pink sandals. She picks up her feet in order to avoid stepping in anything dirty as she approaches me, then pauses a few feet away, folding her hands in front of her in the practiced pose of a well-bred girl. There's us and the weak light and the uninspiring scent of her perfume all brewing together, clashing with the memory of a different girl whispering one word in my ear.

"What are you doing out here?" Madge asks, keeping her voice light, trusting me even while I detect the doubt in her words.

"Waiting for you," I murmur without thinking, because maybe I _was_ waiting for her, maybe I need her right now to help me get over whatever spell Katniss's voice has cast on me.

A pretty frown gathers on Madge's face, revealing more doubt...but also hope. "Waiting for me?" she repeats with a nervous chuckle. "Why here? What for?"

Here's what could happen. I could rush to close the distance between us, then grab the material of her dress and kiss her. A surprised noise would squeak from her throat, of course, but she'd wind her arms around me anyway. We'd stumble backward until we hit a tree. My body would crush hers against the rough surface as I leaned in, taking her mouth, shutting out all the raging thoughts in my mind.

She would wiggle enough to extract her lips from mine, try to ask something that begins with "What," and I would cut her off, begging her to be quiet. She'd try to speak again, but then she'd gasp as my mouth latched onto her throat. It would be so easy to convince her that this is the right place. It's perfect here. I'd insisted that we needed to find a special spot to be with each other again. This could be it. Having sex with my girlfriend, who's been more than patient, would eradicate the last thing that happened here, the instant when Katniss spoke for the first time.

Once I've melted Madge, she would become equally enthusiastic. She'd caress the back of my neck while my hands thrust under her skirt, groping her thighs, hurriedly spreading them in order to get closer.

But at that moment, Madge would do something wrong. I know her. Eventually, my name would come out again, a feminine moan released into the air, impossible to snatch back. And I would stop everything.

Actually, even if she didn't say my name, I'd eventually stop myself no matter what. That's what would happen. I've done enough to Madge, and to Katniss, and to myself. I've been a selfish coward incapable of choosing when the decision should have been clear.

Instead of trying to fake it with Madge, I do the right thing and back away from her. "Madge...I'm sorry. I thought I could do this, but it's..."

It takes Madge a moment to register that I'm putting distance between us. She slumps against the nearest tree and glances at her shoes in misery. "I know," she mumbles, like she's been holding some knowledge hostage for a while.

A hot brick drops into my stomach. "What do you mean you know?"

She averts her gaze. "I thought we'd simply continue, as if we were never apart."

That's what I'd thought, too. That things would just go back to normal.

Madge plays with the strap of her dress. "We're so focused and dedicated, you and I. You strayed from home but only because of your father, so it felt like you were following a tradition coming to this place, not doing something spontaneous. And as long as you still liked art and talked nonstop and looked the same, I expected everything would be normal when I got here. I should have known I was wrong the minute I saw your shaggy hair."

I touch the ends of my curls. Katniss hadn't exactly tamed them with her scissors, only trimmed them. "I may look different, but that's not a bad thing."

"Oh Peety, stop it. That's not really the problem. I'm merely using subtext. You know I do that whenever I'm playing a verbal chess match."

That's true. She uses that tactic a lot in Student Council.

She goes on. "Your letters were still long, but I sensed a change from the tone of them, starting sometime around, oh, I suppose late November. I ignored it, but the second I met your host sister, I realized how different things things had become. I'm sure a sister is the last thing you consider her to be."

"Madge, what are you saying?"

"Have you seen her naked?"

Shit. "Not on purpose," I squeak. "She ambushed me."

This doesn't account for the night I saw through Katniss's wet dress, or how often I've memorized her wicked curves while swimming with her, or that those images crystallize in my head whenever I'm alone. Who am I kidding? I know exactly what I'm doing, and who I'm thinking about, while I'm in the shower. I've fantasized about her so many times that I've earned myself a one-way ticket to hell.

"Katniss told you?" I ask.

Madge waves that off. "Never mind. I figured she wasn't lying. I just wanted to see the look on your face." Based on the demure little half-sniffles, I can tell she's forcing herself not to cry. I've never heard her like this before, not even at the airport when we said goodbye. "I didn't want to believe it. I've only been here a few days, but that's all it took to realize. I already know where this is coming from."

"It's complica—"

"You're in love with Katniss."

"No!" I insist. "I wouldn't cheat on you. I haven't."

She spears me with her wobbly smile. "I know you haven't, but you've _wanted_ to cheat. The way you look at her...it's obvious you love her. More than you ever loved me."

My feelings for Katniss are infinite, yet I can't think about what that means right now. This also about my feelings for Madge—the ones I don't have anymore. I care about her, but I don't feel passionately about her. Maybe I never did. _That's_ why I'm breaking up with her. I haven't said it out loud, but she knows. So really, the last thing she needs is salt rubbed into the wound, some kind of acknowledgement that Katniss has taken her place.

I step forward. "I swear, it's not—"

She sighs. "Peety. You talk in your sleep."

My heart compresses, and I swallow the remainder of my protest. The way heat invades my cheeks, she may as well have caught me with my pants down and my fingers wrapped around my dick. "What did I say?" I blurt out. "Whatever I said was unconscious, Madge."

Sure enough, she erupts into tears. It's awful to see, and it's my fault, so I return to her and pull her into a hug. I plant a kiss on the top of her head, half of me freaking out and guilty about what she heard, the other half defensive about breaking a boyfriend commandment while I literally had no control over it.

"You said her name," Madge reveals. "You said 'Always.'"

"Oh, Madge," I start.

"Please be quiet."

_Yeah. Shut up, Peeta._

It's a challenge to bite my tongue, an avalanche of words on the precipice of pouring out, but that comes with too many risks. Forget that I might slip and say something I don't mean—what if I slip and say something I do mean?

As if my sleep talk hasn't already done enough damage, I managed to keep my incriminating thoughts bottled up in my dreams for months, not spilling any secrets to Haymitch while sharing a room with him, nor to Katniss while sharing her bed. But with Madge, I do a bang-up job of giving myself away.

Then again, I remember 'Always.' Katniss had told me one night that I'd said it out loud while sleeping, and it makes sense since that's what I'm thinking every time I lay my eyes on her. I'm thinking 'Always' yet wishing I wasn't.

Madge's tears seep into the front of my shirt where I cradle her to my chest, trying hard to console her even though I'm the culprit here. Once I did want her because we fit well together, and it was safe to be with someone like me. A girl who understood ambition and pressure, who ran in the same circles as I did. A girl who had a sweet but tidy laugh. My mother approved of her, and she'd charmed my dad. Having Madge as a girlfriend hadn't been wholly romantic, but she made me smile. I'd wanted to make her happy.

I never expected to crush her heart. Anyone's heart, for that matter. Most likely we would have lasted if I'd stayed home, but what's the point in dwelling? I don't regret signing up for this year.

While Madge cries, I hold her tight, whispering that I'm sorry, that I didn't mean to hurt her. "What can I do?" I finish lamely.

Madge cranes her head. "Take me somewhere. Let's just walk until the sun rises, and then I want to catch a plane home."

I hate to separate myself from Katniss during the street fest, especially if there's a chance Cray might show up. On the other hand, the lively strums of the guitar coming from the square reassure me of a few truths. Katniss isn't alone. She has Finnick nearby and Haymitch working at the cantina. She has Jo and Tigris. Anyway, she would bristle at me for assuming she can't take care of herself.

I owe Madge this much. I take her hand and lead her from the trees, heading down the road until the protest music fades. We wander parallel to Panem's coastline, not speaking. This how we say goodbye.

kpkpkpkpkp

At sunrise, I bring Madge back to her hotel but tense when I see the mess: overturned tables and the remnants of broken instruments. It's like a war zone. The party is over, the square empty except for a few battered looking men drinking away their aches and pains at the cantina.

Madge asks what happened. I don't have an answer, only horrible visions of Katniss handcuffed again. And worse, in a dank cell manned by Officer Cray. And far worse, in an alleyway somewhere, with a split lip and covered in bruises. I rush to the cantina to find out what went on last night, but it turns out that Haymitch is no longer at work, so I approach the men passing around a bottle of rum on the sidewalk.

"Hey," I begin. "Where did everyone go?"

"Where I did _you_ go?" a familiar voice accuses.

Jo emerges from the cantina with Tigris at her side. Jo snatches the rum from the group, ignoring their grunts, and takes a long swig while passing a critical eye over Madge.

I don't have time for this bullshit. "What's going on?"

"Nothing anymore," Jo says after wiping her mouth. "You're too late."

"Where's Katniss?"

"Like you care."

I flush and then knock the bottle from her hand, sending it crashing to the pavement in glass shards. Madge yelps. Jo is impressed.

"Answer me," I demand. "Now."

"She's all right," Tigris says. "Finnick got her out of here in time. He came back looking for you. I think he'd been searching all night."

She tells us what happened with Cray and the mob. I hear her correctly about Katniss being safe, but I won't be able to relax until I see it for myself.

Madge offers to stay another day, but I've wasted enough of her time. I take her to her room and force myself not to pace while she calls the airport for a morning flight and subsequently pays an exorbitant fee to change her ticket.

I catch her removing her necklace and gazing at it for a moment. With reluctance, she holds it out to me, the _P_ charm trembling from its chain. I wait for the gesture to sting, but all I feel is relief. I almost tell her to keep it, because it's clear that she wants to. It's a memory, after all.

It would do no good, though. Madge would assume that I'm offering out of pity, which would insult her. So I accept the necklace and wedge it into my jeans pocket, then unclasp my own necklace and hand it to her. We don't say anything about it. Not that there is anything to say.

When the cab arrives to pick her up, she wavers. "You're edgy. I don't like leaving you this way."

So I lie. "I'm just being anal. If Tigris says everything's good, then I believe her. My host family is probably at home waiting for me."

"I'll miss you. I still love you."

I speak softly. "I know that."

"You won't be here forever. Maybe when you come home..."

I press my lips together, because we've tried waiting for each other already, and she can't change her tune at the last minute. And I don't want to think about going home, or about where home actually is anymore, because I'll just get more confused, and I need to get back to the cottage and see if my family's there, and find Katniss, and tell her that I...

"Okay, okay," Madge concedes, seeing the maelstrom going on in my head. "I just...I..."

I silence her with one last hug, and it seems to be what she finally needs to leave. After the cab drives off, I run home.

The second I get there, the door blows open, and Haymitch stomps out of the cottage wearing a black eye and a sour expression. He pokes me in the chest. "Boy, where the fuck have you been?!"

"You're okay," I sigh.

"Not as handsome as usual—" he gestures to the eye "—but yeah, I'm breathing. Now answer my question. I heard you were at the fest. You all right? You look it."

"I was with Madge. I didn't know about the mob."

"Jesus. If you plan on being out all night, tell me that first! I wasn't far. The cantina was right in the square! I've been going out of my mind. I was damn near ready to go on a jungle hunt for you. While you're here, it's my job to make sure you stay alive, got it?"

I hadn't thought about that, the responsibility that Haymitch accepted by taking care of someone else's kid. It never seemed to faze him before. But then there hadn't been a mob to deal with until last night. Evidently, he's also forgotten that I've been sleeping at Madge's hotel for days, so there was no reason to assume I had to check in with him. Yet he had every right to panic.

I can relate. "Where's Katniss?"

Haymitch waves tiredly at the question. "She's safe. Greasy Sae said that she saw Peacock Odair dragging Katniss away. The wild child's probably with him right now having rescue sex." He winces the instant it comes out of his mouth. "Erm, sorry. I didn't mean to say...you probably didn't need to hear that. I know you and Wild Child are close."

I nod miserably, then immediately shift gears and shake my head. "No. I ran into her friends. They said Finnick was looking for me until an hour ago. He promised Katniss that he'd make sure I was okay. Katniss wasn't with him. I mean, Jo and Tigris said that she was fine, but still."

"Well, I bet Finnick took her to his boat and forced her to stay put. Or she came back here, waited for you to return, and when you didn't, she and her stubborn nature went out again to prowl the island for you, probably thinking to cover more ground than her boyfriend can on his own."

"She would be looking for you as well," I insist.

"Me? Ha," he mutters, sober and sad. "I've done nothing to earn it. Anyway, she'll come back. Just wait."

That Haymitch isn't alarmed doesn't surprise me, considering Sae's recap of the events—and the fact that he's used to his niece's unpredictability. However, this doesn't sit right with me. My instincts had warned me not to let her walk away last night, but I had. The pinpricks of foreboding that I'd felt in the darkness have been returning since I saw the empty square.

Something's wrong. I know it is.

"I'm gonna go find her," I say.

Haymitch blocks my path. "Uh-uh. No way—"

"The mob is over."

"—am I letting you outta my sight."

"You can't stop me."

I will swing at him if I have to. He can take his seat in the Situation Chair later and decide how to punish me.

Haymitch throws up his hands. "Fine. Suit yourself. You'd better return in one piece, you hear? Violet volunteered to help the stitch up some of our neighbors, so no one's home. I should stay here and keep a black eye out for Katniss anyway. In case she gets back before you do."

I take off without responding, my feet carrying me to the one place Katniss will escape to if she's upset and needs to heal, my pulse escalating the closer I get to the beach. With the sun barely up, the coastline is deserted. I slow to a jog and then stop altogether, glancing east and then west. She's not here.

But her shoes are. They're lying discarded, close to the water line. Holding my breath, I scan the waves a half dozen times before I see a dark head bobbing from an immeasurable distance away, a dot cutting into the orange horizon. I take a reflexive step forward. It's her, I'm sure of it.

Cupping my hands over my mouth, I holler her name, but she doesn't turn around. It's like she's trying to reach the sunrise, getting further away, heading far west to where cliffs replace the beach. My heart seizes, and then everything happens so damned fast. She's out there gliding through the foamy surf, and then a hungry wave swallows her.

I vault across the sand, stumbling as I rip off my shoes. She comes back up just before another wave devours her.

"Katniss!" I scream. "Katniss!"

I fling myself into the water, dive beneath an oncoming wave, and pop up on the other side. Adrenaline speeds through my blood, propelling me forward the rest of the way, focusing on her as she struggles to stay afloat. My vision is a swirl of water and sky and her shape as it gets larger.

 _I'm almost there_ , I promise. _Hang on._

She goes under. I gulp down seawater opening my mouth to shout her name, sputtering while the ocean fights to hold me back. I plunge after her, the salt piercing my eyes, but the water is crystal clear, helping me spot her. She's sinking fast toward a coral reef, her head bent forward, limbs and arms floating like marionette with its strings cut. My body shoots forward, torpedoing through my own bubbles, my hand grabbing onto hers and yanking until she's against my chest.

My legs kick us to the surface. Desperately, I suck up air and clasp Katniss to my side, my muscles burning and throat charred as I swim with one arm toward the nearest stretch of land. It's not as far as getting out here, and I realize why once we reach it. It's a secluded cove, separated from our beach by a line of cliffs.

I sink to my knees and then collapse with Katniss onto the sand. Crawling to her, I'm horrified by the pale color of her skin, and I swipe the wet strings of hair from her forehead. "Katniss?"

She's limp. She's not breathing. _She's not breathing!_

"Katniss!" I shriek, feeling for her pulse. Her heart has stopped. "Katniss, oh God, no! No-no-no, please."

I launch into the CPR steps we learned in Survival, alternating between rescue breaths and chest compressions. "Come on, Katniss," I beg, terrified the pressure of the heels of my hands will crush her. "Please breathe for me." My voice escalates to hysteria, because she needs to live. Because I can't lose her.

It's a cycle of torture, pumping her chest, breathing into her mouth, praying, hoping. "Please don't..." my voice splits into a sob. "Don't go, please."

There's only the surf and my labored pants and her silence. She looks so peaceful, the way she does whenever we sleep together. I want more of those nights. I want more of her. Only her.

"Stay with me," I plead.

Her body jolts. Then her mouth flies open like a fish, her nostrils flaring, and she's coughing up water and wheezing.

I gasp, my fingers shaking and cupping her cheeks. "Katniss, oh my God."

Her lashes flutter, the gray of her eyes blinking up at me in recognition. She raises her hand and gestures weakly, nonchalantly at the sea as though to say, _Careful. There's a high tide today._

And I laugh through my tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: "Truly, Madly, Deeply" by Ray LaMontagne.

_Katniss_

When I wake up, I see a star. Two stars. They're blue and glittering with tears.

It's Peeta. He's hovering over me. He's blubbering, anguish and relief gripping his features. I don't understand what the problem is. The morning sky is clear, the air is balmy, and the sea laps at my toes. The boy I love is here, holding me as droplets fall from his nose and splash onto my cheeks. Even better, his soaked shirt clings to the hard contours of his body.

Oh, how I adore my imagination. I've had dreams of him before, but they were never this real. I savor the fantasy, hoping to reserve it in my memory, so that I can use it in a story the next time we're at our beach.

But in this dream, we must have been swimming. And something must have gone wrong for Peeta to be this distraught. I'm sure it was my fault, whatever it was. I long to comfort him, apologize for making him worry, but I'm weak, pinned down by exhaustion. My throat is parched, my hair is in tangled clumps, and my splayed limbs are trembling. I feel limp as seaweed. So instead, I gesture toward the ocean and think something that he reads within my expression. It makes him chuckle in between watery gasps of breath.

"Oh, Katniss," he sputters. "Y-you were dead. Your h-h-heart s-s-stopped."

Really? How dramatic. I'm not keen on having to be rescued, though delight swirls in me when he leans over and kisses the spot where my heart beats.

My heart stopped, did it? That must be why my chest feels like it's been battered repeatedly. I can only muster enough strength to pat his wet head. _It's okay. It's working again._

I want to say this aloud, yet the words hide in my throat. I'm inconsolable when he crawls away, depriving me of his warmth. I whimper in protest, but he shushes me, promising to come right back. It seems to take forever because I drift off, my vision blurring to a prism of greens and yellows. Then I'm being lifted from the ground, which makes me sad. I was comfortable lying there.

Though I'm not too sad as I sink into Peeta's arms, my cheek lolling against his skin. His pulse quickens as he walks a short distance and lays me down once more, onto a smooth but hard surface. A dark rocky ceiling arcs above me. Where did it come from? Who put that ceiling there?

Where is my waterlily? I'd pinned one in my hair for the protest, an orange one, the petals fanning out and curling at the tips. It's a native Panem bloom, but it had taken me ages searching through foliage to pick the right one. Peeta had once said that I remind him of that flower, ever since he took that picture of me by a waterlily pond after school. The bloom I'd finally found was lovely, his favorite color, and I'd plucked it from the forest, hoping it would bring me luck. I secured it in my hair, just behind my ear, but now as I comb though the nest of tresses, I can't feel it. It's gone. I've lost it.

Peeta begins touching me. His touches are cautious but hurried. The breeze tickles my clammy skin, and I feel myself being stripped of fabric, layers of it hastily peeled from my curves. The freedom of it is nice, though it would be better if I were still wearing my waterlily. I miss it terribly. I'm rolling my head from side to side and making low, needy noises. The urge to hum a song until the flower materializes is so great, but Peeta's hands are now on my cheeks, stroking them as he whispers something. I don't know what he's saying, but his tone is a soft current passing through me.

When I go quiet, his shape moves from my line of sight. I close my eyes, which feels nice. My ears pick up on some rustling sounds coming from him, like he's baring himself too. It's a possibility that I wouldn't have dared imagine. Knowing that I hardly deserve this sort of dream, I wait for the moment when I'll awaken.

A flurry of spectral images and sensations confuse me. His clothes and my clothes laid to rest in the sun. The cavernous walls that surround us. Grains of sand cover my thighs and dry in my hair. I hear his footsteps leaving, then silence for a long time, and then his footsteps return. His breathing is heavy, and he starts hitting something hard, then I hear him cursing and hitting whatever it is again, over and over. Coconut water is poured into my mouth, taking pity on my parched tongue. My ribs expand as I guzzle. Peeta's heat envelops me as he collapses by my side, carefully scooping up my body and holding me close. I smell melted sugar as he murmurs things that dissolve into the air.

A thick, syrupy blackness draws me into its well, engulfing the rest of my consciousness. I melt into oblivion and find bliss. It's dark everywhere, and yet it's a comfort. Too much of a comfort. I begin to question whether trusting the dark is wise. I was doing something the last time I plummeted like this. I was...I was swimming. No, I was drowning. The ocean had tricked me.

I'm submerged within nothingness. I'm beneath the surface of the ocean. I've let the water woo me. Oh, God. Have I drowned? Am I dead? Or can I still save myself?

I try to fight my way out of the sea. Pumping my arms and legs, I swim upward against the suction, until I'm blowing through the surface and splitting the blackness apart.

My lips flap open. I lurch upright, my muscles tensing. My bones ache from some source of exertion. My fingers and knees quiver as if I haven't used them in ages. I feel haggard and used beyond my limitations, like a shredded sail.

A dream. It was only a dream. I'm in a cave that opens up to the beach, the sand stretching out from the entrance and leading toward the sea, the white froth of the waves reflected under the stars. Night has fallen. How long have I been asleep? Where exactly is this cave? I don't recognize this coastline or this cavern, though I get the sense that I should know it somehow.

Heat brims from my left, where a fire crackles within a tiny circle of rocks, with branches and coconut husks used to fuel the flames. It was constructed by an amateur, but it's serviceable nevertheless. I lick my chapped lips, vaguely recalling drinking sweetened water, and spot two pairs of coconut shells lying empty on the ground. They're green, which means they were young and fresh with liquid. There's also a flat, sharp rock beside them, perhaps used to break them open.

Large leaves are tucked beneath me. Palm fronds form a haphazard bed and keep the sand away from my naked body. I jolt at the sight of my bare limbs and breasts in the weak orange light. My head snaps up, searching until I locate my dress laid out on a rock, next to a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I nearly miss the delicate puff of breath against my hip, I'm so baffled by my nudity. I twist to discover the source. And every secret physical part of me flares to life.

Peeta is here, sharing my makeshift pallet. He's not wearing clothes either.

His shape is beautiful. Because I lack the willpower to restrain myself, my eyes focus on the spot between his legs, putting my previous fantasies of him to shame. It's soft but glorious, the sight of it causing me to ache all over. My gaze feasts on him, moving onto the expanse of his stomach, the whipcord muscles rising and falling with his breaths, the belly button that I'd like to tickle, the fine hairs curling up his legs. I cannot resist touching him, my fingers skating over the splendid tilt of his hipbone.

He smacks his lips in his sleep. It brings me to my senses. Nothing happened between us, I'm certain. We must have washed up here, and he must have stripped us, believing it was best not to sleep in wet clothes. Still, that doesn't mean he would like what I'm doing while he's unconscious.

After tracing the fan of his lashes, I lumber to my feet and stumble out of the cave on jellied limbs, crossing to where the tide meets the shore. The beach is horn-shaped, lit by the constellations poking white holes in the sky. It looks to be a small cove. Where though? I've never been here.

Squinting toward the east, I make out the scattering of lights from the mainland and my village. We're not impossibly far from there but still enough of a distance away, with cliffs separating us, that swimming back would be too dangerous. Only a boat would make it here. I survey the area, the waves bumping together and ramming into the cliffs.

And I know. I know where I am. I've stared at this cove from my beach so many times. I must truly be dazed, because there's no other explanation for why it didn't dawn on me sooner. This is the cove where my parents made me, the spot that Mama once said they came to on one special day. I've always known of this place and yearned to see it, but I could never bring myself to venture here. After Papa's death, I feared how much the memories would hurt. Even now, a flood of images crowd into my heart.

Suddenly, I remember what happened this morning. I dove into the ocean, hoping to swim off my troubles, and I saw Primrose. She was waiting for me, and I drifted without thinking, and I almost reached her. I almost had her. It had seemed so real. Yet it hadn't been. I lost her for a second time.

My knees hit the sand. I hunch over, flattening my palms on the ground. The tears break through and pour down my face, my gasps getting louder by the second. Beyond the waves, I hear his feet pounding toward me. I want to sprint away so he won't see me like this, but I'm no match for the other desire winding around my heart. The desire for him to see the worst of me.

"Heyheyhey," he says, landing by my side and capturing me in his arms. "Katniss, it's all right. You're all right. Shh."

"Peeta," I cry. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I drowned."

"No, Katniss, that's not your fault."

"Primrose" I try to explain. "I was swimming, and I saw Primrose, and I thought, and I..."

And I'd been wrong. In the ocean, my sister had called my name, but I realize now that it hadn't been her voice. It hadn't even sounded like her. It had sounded distressed rather than playful, and much deeper, like a male voice. Something tells me that the shout I'd heard was in fact Peeta. He must have seen me swimming. He saved me.

Everything I'm trying to communicate, he understands without words. He rubs my back, telling me that I don't need to say more about what happened. That he knows.

It's a novelty, how we cling to one another naked while I weep and he whispers. But I don't want to _shh_ anymore. I've already spoken to him, whispered his name in the dark, and I won't hold back anymore. I cry until I've drained myself of each bad dream, each second the ocean had pulled me under. I cry until I return to the surface. The sobs ebb to hiccups, the hiccups to gulps.

I tilt my head back and watch him as his thumbs swipe the last of my grief aside. My throat is raw, but I cannot say whether it's from the crying, or the aftereffects of swallowing heaps of seawater, or from speaking after so long, or from his nearness. Or maybe it's from all of that.

There is so much to question. How had he managed to get to the beach before the ocean claimed me? Where has he been? Did he see the mob? Or did Finnick find him? Is everyone okay?

Intuition says the ones who matter are fine. As safe as Peeta and I are. Also, the look in his eyes affirms that I have no need to worry. That my life hasn't ended, that it can be better, and for the first time, I believe it. That's what Primrose would want. That's what I want.

The past eighteen months lift from me like a weight. My little sister's gone but still sweet in my memory. Meanwhile, I have myself. I have Peeta.

He swallows, reading my mind as he does so well. "You're a dreamer. You're an island flower and a symbol for your people. You like to sleep with a nightlight. You never drink coffee. You always braid a thin lock of your hair." One more swallow. "And everyone loves you."

Everyone. My neighbors, friends, the rest of my family are still alive, still with me. And even if Peeta doesn't feel this love, even if he was referring everyone but himself, his feelings almost match my own. I discovered that when we danced, heard it in the words he spoke. _I don't want to forget._

And why should we? We matter to each other.

Tonight, his arms are here to comfort me. And...and also...

He captures the inside of my wrist and skims it with his lips. It brings me back to the night in my bed when he confessed how my wrists had struck him on his first day, when he saw them red and raw and in shackles.

_I thought to myself, that it was the only place where you weren't strong. I wanted to touch you here. To make you feel better, or maybe to explore what a wound felt like on you, or both, I don't know. I guess I hoped that I could comfort you somehow and sort of confirm that you were more vulnerable than you seemed. But it was a mistake to think that I could fix you. Your wrists healed on their own._

They did heal, and yet here he is, covering them with his lips. Simply because he wants to.

There is no one to interrupt us but us. His eyes are luminous, wide awake and blue-blue-blue. They travel from my face to my feet, and my body squirms, my chest pumping into his chest, his pulse beating with my own. The impact is all-consuming. I crave his gravely moans against my skin, our legs linked and going wild, and kiss me, please kiss me, kiss all of me.

He does. His mouth brushes my cheekbone, sweeps across my skin to peck my earlobe, then down, yes down, to the indentation beneath my jaw, where he sighs, and I sigh with him. Then please yes, his soft kisses coast across my neck, marking a path along my shoulder. He kisses my nose, my eyebrows. I tilt my head for more, and his eyes open on me. We inhale together, nearer, yes nearer, so that our bottom lips graze. The contact makes us shudder. So much and yet not enough. Come here and please end this. And start this. Kiss me. Yes, kiss me.

"Kiss me," I whisper.

At last. He frames my face, his gaze locking onto me as he gathers his wits and then leans in. And his mouth catches mine.

Fire. Wind. I feel both. We rise to our knees, arms wrapping around each other, our lips yielding, moving with a slow but crazed sweetness made of months and days and hours and minutes. His tongue seeks me out. With each flick, I burn. He tastes of airy things like sunshine and time itself. I want to live in this kiss and never stop. Never stop.

He stops. He pulls away too soon, inhaling unsteadily. "We shouldn't," he rasps.

I blink my way back to earth. "Shouldn't?"

For a second, I think he means that we have no protection, but that can't be it, because Gale Hawthorne once boasted to Peeta that Panem girls are safe, because we get shots at sixteen. To my astonishment, it isn't until my gaze drifts to his chest that I remember Madge, and only because I see that his necklace is missing. Perhaps he lost it in the water. Perhaps it's adding to his guilt. After all, wasn't he with her while I was swimming? If so, what brought him to my rescue?

My palm presses against his skin, where the necklace used to hang. The possibilities churn my stomach, filling me with the worst kind of dread, butI have to know, I need to know... "What happened?"

His hand covers my own. "I took it off. Madge went home."

I go absolutely still. This is not what I expected, never what I expected, because I'd given up on expecting. So all I can do is ask, "Why?"

Beneath our fingers, his heartbeat crashes like a wave. "Because you said my name," he replies.

That answer is a sunset. It's each glance I stole when he didn't notice. It's each time I reached out to touch him when he wasn't looking, then pulled back just before he caught me. It's each time I had to leave the room. It's each time I wanted, but he didn't want back. It's all of that in reverse, like another chance.

"Finnick is gone, too." It would be odd saying this much at once, talking of important things, if I weren't so determined for Peeta to know them. "At the protest, we said goodbye."

I don't need to explain further, not with him. His mouth goes slack for a moment. "Why?"

I smile. "Because I said your name."

A relieved exhalation falls from his lips. It's rare to see him speechless.

"So why must we stop?" I ask.

Our hands haven't moved from his chest. He squeezes them tightly. "This place is. You almost..."

Died. I almost died. He's worried this is the wrong night and place for us, so soon after what happened.

No. It's not the wrong night. I may have been in shock after he saved me, and I may have broken down, but as the tears have subsided, I feel hopeful, released from the past. I want to celebrate. I'm not ashamed, in spite of how we got here.

"Peeta," I begin.

His eyes narrow in a wonderful way. "God, Katniss. Your voice."

He wants my voice. He will have it. "You're a baker," I say. "You're a painter and a fine swimmer. You like to sleep with the window open. You never take sugar in your tea and you hate hot peppers. You always double-knot your shoelaces." I hold fast to his gaze and murmur, "And this is real."

With a sigh of defeat, his mouth swoops down onto mine again. The world spins. I dissolve under his kiss, the angle of his jaw as he grabs my face and fastens me to him, prying my lips apart without delay and stroking my palate with his tongue. The effect is a liquid throbbing from between my legs. I clasp his shoulders and open wider for him.

Peeta makes a shrill wanting sound in his throat. I whimper against his pliant tongue, my fingers diving into the nook where his hair meets his nape, pulling on the blond curls while his head moves attentively with my own.

He tears his mouth away, and I crane my head back as he sucks his way down the tendon of my neck, descending to the curve where it meets my shoulder, drawing it into his mouth until I'm inconsolable. This gets him even more worked up, and he sucks harder, and I get more vocal.

He veers back and gives me a dark, smoldering look. The light from the stars and half-moon reveal the patches of sand scattered over his neck and waist, his nose red from the sun, and his windblown hair. A golden wild child.

My eyes settle on his lips, silently asking for more. His answer is an affirmative groan. He seizes my hips, and his lips knot with mine yet again, our tongues whipping together impatiently. And then we're sinking to the ground. I don't care that we're stranded. I don't care that we won't make it back to the cave, nor that we're getting sandy.

The sea rushes forward to pool around our thighs before retreating. We're eager, panting and grappling to get as near as possible. He pulls me onto his lap, my legs split and wind around him. He's stiff against me, and the sight of him like this, and the contact of it, rubbing, rubbing, sends a white flash of heat through my body.

Peeta cups my breasts, staring at them, captivated. Swearing under his breath, he lets go, palms my ass, and hefts me upward so that my chest is level with his mouth. Clutching the nape of his neck, I fling my head back, the ends of my hair skirting the water, my nipples pebbled and aching. One by one, he draws the peaks into his mouth, lapping at them with his tongue.

"Peeta," I chant. "Peeta."

As soon as I begin, he makes it his mission to conquer my voice, sucking me into a near faint, intent on hearing all the different ways I can gasp his name. Neither of us is able to withstand the friction going on below though, the intimacy of me writhing against his abdomen. The second he releases me, he twists us around to lay me on the damp sand.

I'm in a hurry. I need him much, much closer. Even so, Peeta's hands beg to touch, his expression silently pleading, _Let me_.

Let him. Let him touch.

He's all fingers and lips on my collarbone, my stomach, the arch of my feet. He fluctuates between immersing himself in the task and checking my reactions often, as though I'll dissolve if handled wrong.

Experimentally, he cups his hand and collects water, then lets each droplet splash onto parts of me that twitch with need. They land on my nipples. They trickle between my legs, at the peak where all my nerves gather. Peeta concentrates on that place, scooping up more of the sea and...one drop...two drops...right where I'm throbbing. I whine as another bead of water dissolves into me, then another falls from his fingertip and shimmies down my center. It's the most erotic thing I've ever experienced. But...but...

"But I can't wait," I say. "Please. Now."

Smiling, Peeta uses his thumb to dab my lips with saltwater and then gives me another kiss before settling on top of me. We may be clumsy, him fumbling to align us, me mapping his body with impatient hands, trying to decide what part I'd like hold onto and constantly changing my mind. But there's no more uncertainty. The two of us shake with nerves and anticipation.

He tries to aim, then meets my eyes. _Show me._

Let him. Show him.

Our whimpers collide as I grab him and guide him, and we angle our hips, watching together as he disappears inside me. And pivots all the way. And oh, the fullness of him. Ohhh.

Peeta's back arches as a long-suffering noise escapes him, something like a strangled cry, and it goes on and on. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a flood of incoherence. I grab his face and make him look down at me. Our eyes meet, and his are rapturous, and I think mine are too. That's how we remain, fixated on one another.

My American boy trembles from within, hinting that he needs to move. I want to devour him, but I struggle to control myself, because he hasn't done this as often as I have. He needs help, otherwise he may not last.

Once he settles, I flatten my feet on the ground and raise my pelvis into him, jutting up and down to suggest a sinuous rhythm. When I do, his mouth falls open and high-pitched groans, soft but laborious, topple from his lips. He sounds surprised by his own pleasure.

"Do you feel it?" I moan.

He nods frantically and loses himself in my slick limbs, his head landing on my shoulder, where he bites down. I'm doing this to him. It's me. No one else.

After a few moments, he catches on, synchronizing with me, allowing my legs to give out and wind around him. He hoists himself onto his elbows, cradling my face close to his, slanting into me from a new angle that tingles my spine. The change in position has us both panting. He withdraws and pitches forward, then does it again, and again, and yes, again.

And then. Suddenly. His tip hits a narrow spot inside me.

We let loose. Our bodies go wild, speeding up and chasing that tiny spot.

Peeta has always been what people would call a nice boy. But in this cove, with the sand at my back and his body stroking through mine, he's not moving like a nice boy. He's moving in a passionate, tireless way, his pace ripping my voice from my body. I clasp his lower back, the hot glide of his length sending me to a new plateau.

"Oh...oh God," I mewl. "My...my God. Oh...Peeta."

I'm unsure how much more either of us can handle. Yet we stare at each other. We sense it, the need for more, more, more. He falls against me, and by now we are shouting over the waves, with the water charging around us and our wet hips pushing and pulling. Everything is slippery and warm. The surf is in my ears as Peeta's weight moves over me, his body stealing my breath.

Peeta squints, quietly beseeching, _Finish me._

Let him. Show him. Finish him.

I'm spread out, twisting in the sand, and reaching, reaching. One final thrust, and I seize him. He goes still, his mouth parting on a silent moan, and I catch his lips and tongue. That's what ends me, the taste of him succumbing to it. I join him, the pleasure pitching me off the sand. Gone. Utterly gone.

We collapse. His head lands on my chest, his lips resting at the top of my breast. I could do this with him forever, unraveling him like this. It wasn't long, yet it was an eternity.

Peeta rises to look at me, to see how I am, if I enjoyed myself. He's flushed, a little drugged, pink-painted cheeks and masculine glee. There's wonder, hope, and more than that. I see those two blue stars again, glowing and taking up every spare inch of my heart. As if it can't get any better, his hands find my wrists again, his features reverent as he caresses me there. The reason is not lost on me, nor its effect. It tells me that I'm his and right here, right now he's mine. Like we promised, we protect each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my gratitude to Chelzie and Court81981 for helping me reach the heart of this chapter, for kicking my author-ass when I needed it, and for being stars in my night sky. I couldn't have done it without you guys.
> 
> I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.


	15. Chapter 15

__

_Peeta_

I wish that I could tickle her feet until she wakes up. That high arch was one of the first things I noticed about her during that awkward taxi ride home from the square. I'm tempted to find out if the skin is as soft there as I've always imagined. But if she woke up, I'd feel bad. Besides, this is an opportunity to study her naked.

With the early morning rays permeating the cavern, I memorize how she lays her on stomach, her head twisted toward me and her dark hair covering part of her face. One arm is propped beneath her head while the other arm is tucked closely to her side, with her hand curled under her chin.

I think of what we did, unable to believe it happened. It's amazing that I lasted at all. At first, I'd felt like a victor and a klutz at the same time, basking in the moment but clueless about how to make it good for her. But God, the thing I did with the water—her pretty moans turned me into a superhero. And inside her, it was like the deeper I went, the closer I came to immortality. She sang out my name, made so many noises just for me.

Afterward, we dragged ourselves back into the cave, covered the fronds of the palm bed with our clothes to give us padding, and passed out again. Later, the clouds swooped in, the sound of the downpour pulling me from my sleep. In my drowsy state, I hauled Katniss outside once more to wash the sand from our bodies. We tipped our heads to drink, then we kissed, then I got hard. She touched me as the rain drenched us. She touched me while I grabbed onto her, my fingers in her hair, my hips rolling toward her hand. I fought not to lose it too fast. I held on until my muscles gave up, then threw my head back and called out to the wet sky. She supported me with her free arm, saving me from crashing to my knees.

This morning, my mind straddles a thin line between gawking at her breasts and debating what to do next. The CPR that I'd learned in Cinna's class saved her life, I was able to put those fire-building skills from Survival to use, and there are coconuts to drink from. But I'm worried about food and how to get out of here.

Not worried. Scared. I'm scared.

There aren't many options for returning to the mainland. There's no way in hell we're swimming back. We'd need a boat, or at least an accessible trail through the cliffs, but that kind of hike could take days, and there's no guarantee we'd run into fresh water.

Then again, no one's a greater ally than Katniss. When she wakes up, we'll face this together.

I settle closer to her. "I'm going to tell you a story now. It's about a guy traveling to a new place and meeting a girl who's the polar opposite of him. She's wild. She's got steely eyes and sun-kissed skin. She smells like orchids and sea salt. She has loopy handwriting and walks like there's always a guitar strumming in her head. Mockingjays sit on her shoulder when she whistles to them. The ocean knows her secrets. She's unafraid of showing off her body, but she's afraid of her own heart.

"And this guy's a dumbass who doesn't appreciate her at first, because unlike her, he's never been out of control a day in his life. Even his year abroad was meticulously planned, although it was naive to assume things would go his way in a foreign country. Anyway, maybe that's what he really wanted. To find himself by losing himself, if that makes any sense."

Katniss sighs unconsciously. She's the most beautiful person I've ever known. And I've been inside her.

I shake my head. "This girl knew what he needed before he did. She unlocked him, showed him what it's like to take risks without the fear of failing. She taught him how to play."

My finger curls around a lock of her hair. "The story has some funny moments as they get to know each other, but it gets harsh quickly. They're not friends, and then they are friends, and then they're more than friends, and then they force themselves to stay friends. The girl wants him, and he starts to want her, but he refuses to give in because he thinks he's being some kind of faithful knight. He breaks her heart repeatedly." My head dips. "And he's sorry. He's so sorry for that, Katniss. He should have figured he was doomed the minute she tried to intimidate him by stealing his shirt."

I feel a grin surface on my face. "By the way, you can keep the shirt. It's always been yours...I..."

"Well, shit," a mythological voice mutters.

I bolt upright. Finnick is standing just outside the cave, watching us with mixture of shock and weariness.

Am I hallucinating? No. All six-feet, four-inches of him are actually here.

Embarrassed, I fumble to cover Katniss. He glances away, bracing his hands on his waist and giving me time to take care of her and then leap into my pants. I cross over to him, craning my head over my shoulder once to make sure Katniss is still out cold. Seeing Finnick materialize out of nowhere, as if the ocean carried him here on a wave, adds to the Poseidon effect.

A motorboat bobs near the shoreline, a rope tethering the vessel to a nearby rock. I hadn't even heard the motor, but who cares? My pipes have never belted out such a long exhalation. Thank fucking almighty!

On the other hand, I need to proceed with caution. Now that he knows we haven't been eaten by sharks, an envious muscle ticks in his cheeks. He knows what Katniss and I have been doing.

Shadows peek out beneath his eyes. "Is she okay?" he croaks, as though sharp rocks crowd his throat.

"Yeah," I reply.

"What happened?"

"She went swimming and thought she saw Primrose." He glances up at this, and I abridge the rest. "She drifted. The waves were too strong, but I got to her in time."

He considers the broken bits of my story. "Thank you."

There's no use responding to that. It goes without saying that I didn't do it for him, even though I understand where he's coming from.

Finnick scrutinizes me. I don't cower away, but I do raise my hands, palms up. "Listen, I get that you hate me, but Katniss and I...this is...what happened was..."

He pinches the spot between his brows. "You know what? Don't bother."

"Dammit, I have to bother. This wasn't just some—"

"No, I mean you literally don't need to bother, Peeta. She ended it with me at the protest, okay?" he snaps, but it sounds like it's more from exhaustion than bitterness.

"I know," I admit. "She told me. But—"

"I don't want to talk about this with you. I'm not blind. She and I were just friends who shared a bed and whole lot of grief." He sets his mouth into a tight line. "She can't afford to lose anyone else."

"Good," I say. "Because I can't afford to lose her, either."

He studies me hard. It's like he wants to be certain I'm not bullshitting him. Who does he think I am? Considering the kind of relationship he had with her, what gives him the right to judge me? I'm too tired to hold it against him, though, and it was bad timing of me to bring this up anyway.

Finnick sees something in my expression that makes his lip twitch. Satisfied creases form at the sides of his mouth. "Alright, then."

"Peeta?"

Her voice stretches across the balmy air. Finnick and I turn. She's sitting up, her hair disheveled, and her cheeks flush as she holds her dress to her naked chest. I can't resist privately gloating, knowing she looks this way because of me and relishing Finnick's dumbstruck expression from hearing her speak.

 _My_ name. Mine.

She's mine.

Still glazed with sleep, she grins at me, but it only takes a millisecond for her to register that I'm not alone. Her eyes widen as they focus on Finnick standing beside me, and then she's yanking the dress over her head, jogging toward us, and pulling a shocked Finnick into a hug. Jealousy threatens to pull me under until I see the relief etched into her features. It's not a romantic hug.

Still, I feel a hell of a lot better when she lets him go and glances my way, a whole new light brimming into her features. I open my arms, and she rushes into them.

Her voice shimmers. It's surreal, whisking me to life and spanning my entire body as she whispers against my shirt, "I want to go home."

kpkpkpkpkp

Finnick came prepared, in case he found us dehydrated and starving. Wrapped in a blanket, Katniss and I huddle close, guzzling a gallon of water and devouring all the fruit, crab meat, and rolls in his cooler. The rest of the ride is silent, with Finnick operating the boat over the choppy, turquoise water and Katniss curling into my chest and staring out to sea.

Finnick casts us occasional glances. There's hurt there, but also acceptance. I used to see him as a willing boy-toy who treated Katniss like his grief cushion, not someone who wanted the best for her. Now, I know better. I guess we all do.

I give him a nod, quietly thanking him for finding us. He seems to understand and inclines his head.

Arriving back on the mainland, we tramp the short distance from the beach to the cottage. I offer to carry Katniss, but she glowers at me. The Everdeens fly out the front door and charge at us. The instant Katniss sees her mother, her face crumbles. "Mama," she cries as Violet scoops her into her arms, both of them shaking with tears.

"Oh, Katniss," Violet says. "Oh, my girl."

"Mama, I'm sor-sor-ry," Katniss hiccups.

"It's alright." Violet brushes her fingers through her daughter's hair. "I'm here. I promise, I'm here."

Even Haymitch does the unthinkable and crushes me to him, provoking a dry sob from me as my forehead presses into his shoulder. "Dammit, boy," he gasps, but that's all he manages.

My host family thanks Finnick profusely, and after embracing Katniss, and giving me one more look, Finnick heads home. Violet and Haymitch corral us into the house, where my host mother's former healing skills kick in. She gets to work, more clearheaded and industrious than I've ever seen her, checking us from head to toe for injuries, then grinding herbs for a tea that she tips down our throats, then making us take turns in the shower, then ordering us to bed.

Violet ushers Katniss to their room. Haymitch tugs me toward ours. Katniss and I swap helpless glances before being pushed through parallel doors. Forcing me into a change of clothes—my charm necklace is no longer in my jeans pocket, which means I must have lost it at some point—Haymitch grunts that the whole village has been searching for us. I start to apologize, but he plants a hand on my shoulder and shoves me into the bottom bunk, instructing me to sleep. When my head hits the pillow, I black out.

kpkpkpkpkp

My body feels heavy. My eyelids are cemented shut. Groaning, I pry them open and blink at the peaceful colors floating in the room. Gold and purple. It must be late afternoon.

It's quiet. No echo of the surf, nor the usual bustling activity of the neighbors. No guitar or children playing. I listen, anxious for signs of my host family, but there's also nothing. The silence reminds of me too much of waking up in District Twelve.

A mockingjay lands outside the window like a savior. It flaps its ochre feathers as if welcoming me back to the land of the living, then begins to tweet. The sound is similar to Katniss's voice.

Katniss. Whipping the sheet aside, I get to my feet and stumble into the hall. After taking two panicky steps, I hear the muted voices of Haymitch and Violet drifting in from the porch. The tension leaches from my bones. They're here. I peek around the corner and through the screen door, relaxing at the sight of their hunched backs as they gaze at the landscape. Two shells curved inward, heads bowed. A pair of shrunken adults.

"She spoke," Violet says in a flimsy but dazzled voice. "She spoke again. Did you hear it?"

"I heard it," Haymitch answers, also amazed.

"I'd forgotten what she sounds like. I just want to wake her up and hear it again."

"We'll hear it again."

"She let me brush her hair and tuck her in. I felt like her mother again."

"You were always her mother," Haymitch assures Violet.

"How did Peeta's father take the news?"

I grip the wall corner. Of course they would call Dad to let him know what happened.

"He sounded shaken," Haymitch admits with a twinge of shame. "Almost booked a flight down here until I convinced him that Peeta was fine and would call later." He sighs. "Those kids. I don't know what I'd do without them."

My eyes well with tears, my nostrils flare, and my insides burst at hearing Haymitch say this. I'm part of his family. And Violet brushed Katniss's hair, which must have made Katniss happy.

"I should have been the one to go find Katniss," he says. "I should have protected them more."

"Stop it," Violet lectures, her words cracking. "You did the best you could. I didn't do anything except abandon her. I didn't brush her hair. I used to braid it for her."

Haymitch slides his arm around Violet. "You're better now."

"I'm glad you brought Peeta here. He's special."

"He is."

Wiping a few stray tears from my eyes, I pad away as quietly as I can. I'm not sure how well I disguise my heavy gait, because when I inch open Katniss's door, she's already waiting for me.

Looking at her stalls my breath. The blanket covers her chest, her bare shoulders and nightgown straps peeking out. Her hair falls in waves down her chest, she's rosy from sleep, and her eyes alight on me. This is the first time we've been alone since we were naked together on the beach. I'm nervous. I don't know what to expect, but I know what I hope for.

She beckons me inside, and as I close the door behind me, apprehension trickles through my mind that she's reverted back to silence. I meander across the floor and stop beside her. She pats the bed and shuffles backward to give me space. As I sit, I notice Buttercup resting at the foot of the mattress and scanning me like, _Where have you been?_

I've never seen Buttercup in Katniss's bed. He must have kept her company while I slept. I'd like to have my job back, but the problem is that I'm at a loss for words. Whatever we've become, I don't want it to end.

We glance at each other. My hands fidget in my lap. When she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, I notice her nails are bitten down.

"How do you feel?" I ask.

"I..." she wavers. "I was worried. Are you well?"

"I'm in one piece. I slept like a rock."

"Rocks don't—"

"Never mind. It's just a saying."

"Oh." She hangs her head. "I wanted to go to you, but I wasn't sure."

She speaks carefully, tasting her own words, getting to know them again. It's all I can do not to grab her.

I try to focus. "You weren't sure...?"

"If you wanted me there."

Oh, hell. She thinks I'm second-guessing this thing between us, that I might have gotten carried away at the cove because of the insane situation. That I've had time to rationalize about the inevitable stuff, like what happens when I leave in three months.

I scoot closer, the blankets rustling underneath me, and take her hands in mine. Katniss glances up in surprise. Can she tell how jittery I am? Can she feel my sweaty palms?

"Last night," I begin.

Her blush expands to her neck. I've never seen her this shy before, which proves I'm no expert on Katniss Everdeen. Not yet, at least.

"What happened," I begin again. "It wasn't just because we almost died or were stranded. Yeah, everything happened fast, but honestly, did it really? Haven't we been swimming toward this for eons?"

"You are a good swimmer," she acknowledges.

"It's a metaphor."

"I know."

My eyes fall closed. My head tilts to rest against hers. "It was the most incredible night of my life."

"It was new for me," she answers.

"Me, too." I open my eyes, spiraling heart-first into her strong gray ones and landing with a thud. "Katniss, I don't know where this will lead, or what'll happen when the year's over, but I want to be with you while I can."

"You should pinch me."

"Don't do that. This isn't a dream. It's real. You said so yourself."

"It must be a dream," she insists. "To have this much goodness in one day."

"Do you have any idea what it does to me to hear you speaking?"

Her brows knit. "It's strange?"

"No. It's the best sound that's ever existed. Better than rain or music or the click of my dad's camera. Your voice is the last sound I want to hear before I die."

"Too much pressure," she jokes softly.

"We're used to pressure. We can handle it. I want to make the most of our time left. I want you for as long as I can have you."

"You can have me any way you want me."

Goddammit. She sounds good enough to suck on. We've had sex, but there's still more. Plenty more to know. A mouth-watering amount more. I want to pull the covers away and explore the rest of her, see what each part of her body is like, what would happen if I touched _there_ or _right there_. How else it responds to mine, what else we can do together, and _how_ else it can be done.

She toys with the blanket near my inner thigh. I should tell her to stop, only because it's getting me excited, and we can't afford to think like that with her family in the house.

So how did my thumb sneak up to the hollow of her throat without me noticing? How did I end up stroking her there? The up and down of my touch produces goosebumps along her skin. I'm a slave to the amazing way she responds to me.

"We should be careful, " I murmur even as I continue what I'm doing. "There's not much time to get this right, but I want to try."

"But we decide what is right," she tempts.

"What's right is you and me being together. And...and, um..." I chuckle, sheepish. "The last time I declared myself to a girl, I had a speech prepared. I kind of wish I had one now, but I don't think any speech I'd come up with would do you justice, and I know you're not a girl who would want a speech anyway, and in the grand scheme of things, speeches are pretty unromantic when a guy's asking a girl out. And you're not just any girl to me."

I shut up and find Katniss smiling. She didn't stop me from babbling, much less attempt to. Matter of fact, her smile invites me to talk for as long as I want.

"So," I continue, my thoughts suddenly easier to formulate. "So what's right is us letting this happen. All of it."

"As we did on the sand," she says.

"No, not just with sex. That's what I meant about being careful. I've never done this when it mattered, and you deserve the works, and I want to give that to you, because if we just lose our minds and go nuts—trust me, it was incomparable, but if we keep doing that, fucking ourselves into a frenzy—"

"I liked it."

"I liked it, too, but this is worth savoring. I want us to experience _us_. As something real."

She frowns in uncertainty. _What else makes it real?_

Her silent question is surprisingly nostalgic, despite the fact that she's only been talking for a day.

I pray that I'm not about to sound stupid, or lame, or cheesy, or sentimental. "I mean, growing together. Dating."

"I haven't been with someone that way," she confesses, staring at my chest.

"Katniss, it would make me super happy if you'd look at me." When she does, I explain, "It's almost the same as being friends. Going places, doing things alone. Except—"

"I know what dating is," she says, insulted.

"—except I get to kiss you."

That makes her laugh. "Intimate friends," she muses.

"But exclusive. Friends as lovers. Flovers," I joke, earning more of her laughter. It chimes through the space and seems to make curtains billow. Then I say simply, "Boyfriend. Girlfriend."

"I'll allow it. If I can touch you," she declares.

"One touch at a time," I add, my confidence fueling quickly. "And eventually..." I quirk a brow. "We can do more."

"Tell me about _more._ "

" _More_ would be...my tongue wrapped around yours. I'd...I'd like to discover you slowly. Kiss you for hours, also slowly."

The room itself may as well be blushing, for all the hot moisture in the air. I lick my lips to cool them down, but they still burn. My words tug us closer to each other, her leg sliding over my lap and my hands sliding around to her lower back.

I struggle to contain myself. "And after days of kissing you like crazy, we'll end up in this room."

"And?" she prompts.

And I gulp. "I'll finally find my way under your shirt and...and let your breasts fill my hands until we're both wiped out. And one night, when I can't help myself anymore, I'll lower my head between your thighs and taste you. All sweet and moist. Slowly."

My throat and ears are so damn warm. I have no idea where this is coming from, but Katniss's expression is fierce and expectant and alive. Only that one look. I know from that look that she's wet. And she knows I'm hard. But we do nothing but stare.

"Soon, we'll be together again," I say. "Like last night. We'll be right here, and we'll take our time."

"A long time," she whispers. "I'll fuck you slowly."

Now, I'm really hard. "Or we could make love."

"Can't we do both?"

We giggle. Our noses rub together.

Katniss hesitates but nods. "Slowly."

I brush my lips against hers. "Slowly," I agree. "Katniss, I feel everything for you. Every single thing."

Her chin wobbles. "So do I. For you."

"Come here," I say. Even though I'm the one who said it, she's the one who takes my arms and guides me under the covers, like she has a better idea of what _come here_ means.

Katniss. With me.

Not forever. But for a little while.

We make our own island in her bed, our legs and arms winding together. My hand settles on her hip, along the crinkled outline of her panties under the nightgown. She wiggles slightly, causing my breath to stutter against the slope of her ear. Contentment, desire, and an achy sort of desperation stream through my veins as I imagine the _more_ we talked about.

Nope. Going slow isn't going to be easy.

Buttercup hops off the mattress and slinks across the floor. More movement in the window catches my attention, a set of feathers flapping in the breeze. A whistling melody that soars into the big, open sky.

Curled into me, Katniss hums the melody back. A slight vibration of her vocal chords, a hint of how it would sound to hear her sing. And right then, I feel it. Beyond arousal and peace, another sensation builds in me, until I'm overflowing with it.

It's the biggest emotion I've ever felt in my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for nominating Waterlily and my other stories in the Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards. And congrats to the other HG nominees. I'm stoked to be in such wonderful company.
> 
> I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.


	16. Chapter 16

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_Katniss_

When I awaken, a warm and safe feeling nestles comfortably in my stomach. Stretching my arms over my head, a smile grips my face as I recall the way Peeta gazed at me before we fell asleep. In his eyes, I was the only girl that he'd ever held or wanted. It's not the truth, but knowing that he gave up Madge for me makes my heart swell. In the past days, I've known pain and hope, fear and rapture.

Also something I haven't been graced with in so long: happiness. The emotion is familiar. It was not always an easy life without Papa, but I'd known enough joy to miss it when it was gone, stolen from me by my sister's death.

But now, I feel the happiness return, caused by new things. The expression on my mother's face when she saw that I was alive, the gentle pull of her brushing my hair, and her fingers curling over the sheet as she tucked me into bed. The blurred image of Haymitch in the doorway, checking up on me during the middle of my rest. Buttercup venturing into bed with me, like he used to with Primrose.

And Peeta. Discovering the weight of his body as he loved me deep into the sand. The thud of his footsteps coming toward my room this morning and the nervous ripple in his voice as we talked.

He wants me as much as I do him. He asked me to be his girlfriend.

I drum my giddy feet on the mattress.

I'm alone, but his scent has infused itself into the pillow. Based the puttering noises coming from the kitchen, he must be there. Mama and Haymitch's voices drift in from outside, where they're speaking quietly with the Saes.

Hopping out of bed, I check myself in the mirror, comb my fingers through the knots in my hair, and scurry toward the kitchen...too fast, because I slide past the doorway and have to grip the frame to keep myself from falling.

Peeta is fiddling with the knobs on the stove. He's rumpled in gray jeans, a dark blue t-shirt, and a loose apron. That single, unruly tendril of blond hair branches out from his locks as usual. He doesn't see me, but his profile is just so handsome, and I'm so tipsy with affection for him that I enjoy spying for a moment.

He opens the oven, looks inside, and then closes it. Then repeats the process. Then glances at the clock on the wall while wringing the mitt in his hand.

He turns my way, but I dart behind the wall and hide. My face drops into my hands. We've already made love, yet I'm clueless about how to begin this courtship with Peeta. Being his girlfriend is not like being with Finnick. This is special. This is _more._

I pace until I hear the side-to-side pattern of his own footsteps and realize that he's pacing, too. Smoothing my hair over once more, I twist back around to the kitchen doorway. And stop immediately. At the exact same time, Peeta has also turned and stepped in my direction. Catching sight of me, he halts as well. Our movements could not mirror each other more seamlessly. It's as if we choreographed this.

We both glance down and chuckle, then peek at each other. I adore this reaction more than life itself. One of us should really say something, though. I suppose it should be me, since I have plenty of catching up to do.

"H-hi," I say.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," I repeat.

"Your mom is making dinner."

"I-I love dinner."

"And I made cheese buns."

"I love cheese buns," I blurt out. "Mama's outside with Haymitch."

"Yeah," Peeta says, his voice low. "Not for very long."

"Perhaps not."

I play with the strap of my nightgown, which gets his attention. He stares at the strap as he speaks. "They could be back any minute."

An energized pause follows, charged and crackling to the point where I can barely keep still. Our breathing infiltrates the silence.

"Katniss," he says.

"Peeta," I answer.

"For what I have in mind, we should really move closer to each other."

The request wraps around my waist. We close the distance until the tips of our bare toes bump. I crane my head to meet his eyes, which are bathed in so much blue that it's like staring into the sea.

Without looking away, he tosses the mitt over his shoulder and links our hands together, tugging me closer. Our heads move achingly slow, his head angling and mine following his lead, our mouths reaching out for each other, our lips gathering into smiles as they brush.

The door swings open. We spring apart and fly to opposite sides of the room. Haymitch strides into the cottage and idles at the kitchen's threshold when he sees that I'm awake. He frowns between Peeta and me. I'm stuck to the refrigerator while Peeta is glued to the opposite counter. He's retrieved the oven mitt and is choking it to death as he traces its faded mockingjay pattern.

"How're you feeling?" Haymitch asks me.

"Mmm-hmm," I respond, which isn't a response at all.

He gives me a quizzical look. "Well, you're back to making no sense at all. That's a relief." He pats the side of my face, gives me a reverent look, and then lumbers off to his room.

Peeta drops the mitt. I launch myself from the refrigerator. We collide in the middle of the kitchen. I throw my arms around his broad shoulders and issue a desperate sound as his hungry mouth crashes against mine. His tongue parts my lips and flicks inside, the steadiness of his jaw making me dizzy.

"I can't keep my hands off you," he mumbles against my mouth. "This is the total opposite of going slow, but I really don't care right now. It's like I want to make up for every second all year that I didn't touch you."

"That is a lot of seconds," I pant.

"Lots and lots of them," he agrees.

We reel into another kiss, our lips slanting over one another. My knees are about to give out when Peeta rips his mouth from mine. I'm about to glower at him for stopping, but he's too busy gulping at something over my shoulder. I twist in his arms, expecting to see Mama, but it's my uncle again. He's staring at us, dressed for work and arrested in the act of heading out.

Peeta and I freeze, still holding onto each other. I prepare myself for an argument. Haymitch didn't want us to get this close. I remember him warning Peeta about it when I hid in the closet months ago, on the night of the first street fest.

My uncle puffs himself up to speak, then closes his mouth in contemplation. Finally, he picks something out of his teeth and waves us off. "You call that a kiss?"

With that, he walks out the door. I stand there, scrutinizing the empty space where he'd stood until Peeta's hands cup my face and swerve me toward him. He shrugs, amused, and licks his lips.

Our mouths strain to connect in a third kiss. But Mama ambles in.

Deftly, I free myself from Peeta before she catches us, and I welcome her hug. Peeta wrenches open the oven door and retrieves the tray of cheese buns, dumping them on the tiny counter. Mama is too busy focusing on me to notice his taut shoulders and beet-red neck. She fiddles with my hair for a second, checks the beans and rice she was cooking to make sure they're done, and finally leaves to clean up before supper.

Peeta glances at me expectantly. In the sudden mood to play, I strut to the sink rather than go to him again, aware that his eyes are on my hips as I move. Turning on the faucet, I begin washing the utensils and bowls he and Mama used to prepare the meal. Coiling ribbons of steam rise up from the water.

My skin prickles as I hear him throw down that silly mitt and approach with unhurried footsteps. His body temperature brims against my back. He wraps his solid arms around me from behind, rests his chin on my shoulder, and speaks against my ear. "Can I help?"

"Yes," I giggle secretly.

Setting the sponge aside, we dip our hands into the soapy water and lather our fingers instead, washing a spoon that's technically already clean. Together, we skim up and down the hard wooden handle as the hot water sloshes over us. His touch slips and slides with mine, knuckles bumping, palms brushing. Suds run down our skin, the tiny bubbles multiplying and popping. We shiver.

Peeta nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck and whispers, "I love you."

With a gasp, I drop the spoon into the sink, not caring who walks in next. I've heard and felt enough. I twist my head and taste his words.

"I love you," he repeats seconds later.

"I love you," he says with swollen lips.

kpkpkpkpkp

Time passes in immeasurable bliss. He puts his arm around me as we walk to school. We eat lunch with Deliah and Gale, and sit together in the back of class, play-kicking each other or stealing innocent touches under the desk. Cinna doesn't reprimand us that often. I suspect he's glad that I'm no longer ignoring each subject except for Survival. That I'm actually participating and talking.

After school, Peeta and I take the bus to the Internet cafe, where he shows me images of his town and high school, or plays his favorite music for me. We read electronic books and some of his favorite fanfiction. I like discovering new stories and songs. I find myself longing to sing again.

I show him more of the island, secret niches that others don't appreciate. One of them is a wild mockingjay habitat. Peeta goes crazy with his camera, snapping away at the kaleidoscope of feathers swooping through the air. I whistle, and they whistle back. One of them lands on my shoulder—I love whenever this happens—and Peeta takes a picture. It ends up beside his bed, where Madge's picture used to be.

Sometimes, we camp on the beach. We lie on our backs, in our special place, and talk about our families. I slip occasionally, reverting back to silence without thinking, staring at Peeta and expecting him to get my meaning, which he does. Or I reach for my notebook, then flush, remembering that I didn't bring it.

Haymitch knows about us, so I gather the courage to explain everything to Mama. Although she's elated for me, I sense a wistfulness in her voice, and perhaps even concern. Not so long from now, the road Peeta and I are on will diverge into two, but I tell her with my eyes not to worry. When the time comes, I'll feel what needs to be felt. It's worth it.

The nightmares don't come anymore. Still, we can't resist sneaking into the same bed once Haymitch is gone and Mama is dreaming. Of course, we would never do anything that close in proximity to her. All we do is talk, trade light touches, and sleep.

That isn't to say it's not difficult resisting temptation during other stolen moments. For all that we agreed to tread slowly, we have trouble controlling ourselves when we're completely alone. Sometimes all it takes is a glance. As the weeks go by, the kisses expand to other parts of our bodies, and one more inch of clothing is swept aside in our heated fits. It's a glorious ache, getting closer and closer.

kpkpkpkpkp

It's a late afternoon. Our homework is scattered on the floor, forgotten. We rock back and forth on my bed, clawing at each other's scalps and kissing like mad. Frenzied kisses separated by heavy breaths.

Nearly a month has gone by. A month of embraces taken step by step. I detect the possibility of _more_ in the air.

He licks my upper lip, causing my legs to spread wider, allowing his waist further into the space between my thighs. My short skirt flutters up over my waist as our pelvises grind together. I dare to let my fingers dive into the back of his shorts and slide over his bare ass. When I do this, he keens softly into my mouth and sucks on my tongue with more fervor. And when he does that, I grip him tighter.

He works harder against me, the delicate slam of his hips creating a friction that effectively breaks the kiss. We gasp against each other's mouths. I'm going to plummet soon, I can feel it, the tightening.

Peeta feels it too and, with growing confidence, shifts the focus to something new. His hands slip beneath my camisole, fingers searching in confusion for the missing clasp of my bra. He hasn't touched me there since the beach, I realize, but I'm ready for it. I guide his hands to the front where the closure is located. The snap releases, the sheer material flutters apart, and my breasts fill his palms. He alternates between stroking them fully and looping his thumbs over the buds until they toughen. His patience pushes me to the brink.

My turn. Shoving my hips into his, I roll us over and land on top. I take good care of him, lifting his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and drawing his skin into my mouth. His waist and abdomen taste like sugar and salt, like summer in a faraway place with crisp woods and bakeries. All I want to do is tear the rest of his clothes off and consume that taste. My teeth are ready to bite into him and leave marks down his torso.

Traveling upward, my nose grazes the fine hairs on his chest. My cheek sweeps over his heartbeat. My lips suck roughly on a spot just above his ribcage. I've learned that Peeta likes it when I use pressure. He arches into me, panting up to the ceiling as I get closer to his nipple. He moans, so fucking sweet, and hearing it feels too good.

We both forget to be quiet. That's how Uncle Haymitch finds us.

I've never seen Peeta vault away from me that fast. So fast that he falls off the bed.

kpkpkpkpkp

It's late morning by the time I wake up on a Saturday. I shuffle into the hallway and find Peeta by the window near the closet, staring out at the sunrise. He's wearing his sleep pants and nothing else, his blond hair a wonderful mess. As my feet patter across the creaky floorboards, he turns and cocks his head at me, smiling lazily through his bangs. His boyish smile has the power to disintegrate me.

I sashay to the bathroom, giving him a look before slipping inside. I lean against the pedestal sink and wait, my heart flapping like it has wings. He follows me, shutting the door behind him, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully over his bottom lip as he regards my position, as if he's deciding what part of me to tackle first. My thighs part a bit more in invitation.

It's not that we're trying to hide anything, but we have so little privacy. Haymitch is passed out from work, and Mama is already outside tending to her herb garden, so we take advantage. Before I know it, Peeta's hoisting me onto the sink's edge, stepping between my legs, and dipping his head. He presses warm, open-mouthed kisses up the center of my throat, and when he chases the next one with his tongue, my head flies back.

By my third whimper, Peeta has to stop what he's doing to my neck to calm me down. "Quiet," he murmurs, flushed and rather proud of himself. But he sighs hotly as I thread my fingers through his hair and urge his lips back to the hollow of my throat.

I'm feeling murderous when he finally breaks away. "I-I've got to start the bread."

He uses it as the excuse to leave me there, steaming worse than a kettle. Frustrated, I shed my clothes and am about to step under the spray of the shower when the door whips open a minute later.

Peeta stalks back in. "Oh, fuck the bread," he growls and grabs my naked body.

The cramped tub—an oval tin basin—is small enough to push our wet bodies together under the shower head. The interlude is swift and cautious, with the bathroom door locked and the hiss of water muting the sounds we make. I hitch my leg over his waist, showing him how to touch and rub me, until he catches on, his fingers going right through me while I dissolve into his shoulder.

He's a fast learner. When his thumb traces that secret fleshy part of me, he watches in amazement as my body yields to him.

We end up drenching the floor.

kpkpkpkpkp

On my birthday in May, Haymitch gives me a journal for song-writing and Mama has sewn me a new yellow dress. She's at my side for most of the day, playing a card game with me and making floral crowns for our hair while Peeta sketches on the floor.

Eventually, he holds up a sheet, angling it so only I can see. _Go on a birthday date with me?_

"Yes!" I blurt out, startling Mama. "Yes," I say, more quietly.

That night, she comes into our room, beaming because I'm wearing her gift. Nevertheless, I'm huffing and fussing with my hair in the mirror, unable to manage a simple braid.

"Let me," she says, unraveling the mess I've made and starting again.

My thoughts buzz around me like mosquitoes. Having a celebratory evening with Peeta is akin to dating the sun itself, something that's completely impossible to touch but crucial to my survival. What I still can't fathom is what I actually did to win him.

"You deserve Peeta," Mama says, reading my mind. "As much as he deserves you. Just trust that."

In spite of my sweaty palms, I'm feeling brave tonight. "Was it simple loving Papa?"

Her fingers halt, then continue weaving my locks together. "Loving isn't simple. That doesn't mean it should be doubted," is all she says. "If it's complicated, it's genuine. If it's genuine, it's worth it."

"Primrose would say that," I muse.

Our gazes lock. We haven't spoken of her before. Yet, instead of drifting from me, my mother finishes knitting the braid at the nape of my neck. "Yes. She would have said that. She would have been excited for you."

We share a smile. Primrose would have been excited about this moment, too. Mama and me, our reflections conversing through the mirror.

Mama steps back. "All done." A knowing glint brightens her eyes. "You may not believe it, but Peeta has liked you for as long as you've liked him. Long before you both started sleeping in the same bed."

I'd been in the middle of touching the braid, but now my hands fall to my sides in surprise. "How—"

"How could you think I _wouldn't_ know?" she asks. "I sleep only a few feet away. It's been a comfort knowing someone could be there for you, if it wasn't me. I've never worried or thought you would do more than keep each other company at night. I trust you both. Now, as for what goes on when you're by yourselves..."

My cheeks roast as she goes on. "It's alright, Katniss. I understand. You've had your medical shot." She clears her throat. "But please be good to one another. Talk and listen. Do things only when they truly feel right. Okay?"

She has no idea just how much I've already done, but I soak up her advice because everything with Peeta is different. I nod, and she shoos me out of the room. "Go now. Before he reorganizes my spices."

As I cross through the cottage, Haymitch lounges in a chair reading a newspaper. He does a double-take when he sees me, then offers a wink.

Peeta's waiting in the kitchen. Mama's right. He's so agitated that he's giving the spices a onceover. I tap the doorway. He turns, and I nearly die of ecstasy. He's wearing the white linen shirt that I took from him, the sleeves rolled up his arms. His hair fans around his head, and his skin glows from days in the sun.

He gazes at me, looking just as awestruck as I feel. "Wait," he says suddenly, then darts out the front door.

My family and I blink at each other. Mama chuckles when we hear the knock.

She answers the door, and Peeta steps inside. "Good evening, Mrs. Everdeen," he says, combing a hand through his hair. "I'm here for your daughter."

"Oh for God's sake," Haymitch grumbles but with an evident smirk. "She's Violet. That's Katniss. And you're bananas."

Who cares what my uncle thinks. Peeta's gesture charms me to the core. Kissing Mama goodbye and throwing a couch pillow at my uncle's head, I lead Peeta to the front porch, where we grin toothily at one another.

"God," he says, admiring my dress. "You look so..."

If he finds the right word, I will melt and become useless for the rest of the night. I narrow my eyes at the shirt and playfully poke him in the chest. "We should talk about how _you_ look first."

He quirks an eyebrow. "I stole it back. Just for tonight."

My wickedness has rubbed off on him. Perhaps this will be a new game for us, committing thefts on each other. I'd like that.

To my surprise, he takes me to the lagoon that we once jumped into, only we reach it from a level trail this time. The waterfall plunges into the pool, but near the rim it's calmer, the water quivering like liquid silk.

However, that's all I recognize about the place. My hand goes to my mouth as I take in what Peeta has done.

Waterlilies float along the surface, though they don't belong and must have been placed there by him, and square lanterns are scattered across the grass. Floral shapes have been cut into the metal and glow from the flames inside. There's a blanket spread out, with a basket of fancy cookies, also shaped like waterlilies, and a small bottle of dark liquid.

The most I had expected was a meal in the square, perhaps a bowl of fish stew from Greasy Sae's stall. Maybe a dance or two at the cantina.

"I made the cookies, because I know from New Year's that you like shortbread. My dad had to send me the stuff to decorate them," Peeta admits. "And um, I didn't know if you like champagne, but I'm guessing you don't, so I made iced chocolate. It came out a little too sweet. I wasn't really concentrating. Not that you needed to know that, but I hope you like—"

I grab his face and kiss him. He grins against my lips, a goofy smile claiming his face as I pull back. "Tigris and Jo helped me set up," he finishes.

After he rescued me from drowning, Jo and Tigris became Peeta's biggest fans. They liked him before, but now they've developed a greater kinship with him during our story nights at the beach. Finnick hasn't joined us since he and I broke up. I appreciate the space he's giving us, but I hope he'll feel comfortable enough to return someday. We are friends, after all.

To my relief, I've felt no skittishness returning to the water since the cove. Nor has Peeta. I will never forget the way my friends and I cheered when he peeled off his clothes and jumped in with us. He's found his own touch of wildness. I've found my peace.

"I chose this spot because..." Peeta hedges. "Well, this is where I started to fall for you. When we jumped off the cliff."

No one has ever done something like this for me before. Somehow, I've found a way into this boy's heart. I want to stay there until I'm old and dusty.

I pull him into a hug. We do this a lot, stop what we're doing and simply hold on tight, refusing to let the distance in, because right now we still have that power.

We swim naked in the lagoon. He splashes me, tries to tickle my waist, but I'm a master at slipping from his grasp. The lantern lights glint off the water and roam over the contours of Peeta's face. His eyes want me. "C'mere," he murmurs.

My body tangles with his, my legs linked around his waist and my wet breasts crushing his chest. I tease him, dodging his kisses a few times to my satisfaction. He catches me once, brushing his mouth over mine and pulling back with an impish, triumphant grin. It's that grin that seduces me completely.

Leaning in, I seize his lip with my teeth, cutting off his breath. Encouraged, I dab the crook of his mouth with my tongue, one time, two times, trembling at the sensation of his fingers diving into my wet hair. His grip tugs me forward, and our eyes stay open until the moment our lips fuse together. He clasps my head in place, angling it so he can kiss his way through to my soul.

There's no point in doubting what he said earlier. Peeta has never lied to me.

My head tips back as his lips drag across my neck. "You love me, too," he breathes against my skin.

And I will never lie to him, either. "Yes," I say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you guys for voting and choosing Rebel and Legend in the Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards. That's so cool!
> 
> I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: "Au Revoir" by One Republic.

_Peeta_

She loves me. The word _yes_ never sounded more awesome, not in all of living history.

Even now, one month later, with my toothbrush sticking out of my mouth and froth smeared across my lips, I'm still replaying that moment at the lagoon in my head. How once she said it, we'd fallen into a deep kiss that went on and on.

Afterward, we sat at the edge of the lagoon, Katniss ensconced in my lap, and watched the light from the lanterns flicker against the water, a prism of white and dark greens. A lizard dodged a dragonfly and slinked into a bush. The air hadn't been as muggy as it usually was during the day. We even heard some sort of monkey howl peacefully into the dark, and it was crazy how at home it made me feel.

"This is romantic," Katniss said, like the notion was foreign to her.

"Yeah," I said against her bare shoulder.

That was all. For once, I had no urge to talk. There was nothing I needed to say to make that moment any better than it already was.

But that night at the lagoon was an exception. Since then, she hasn't expected romance. The little things have mattered more to her. Bread baked just the way she likes it. Long showers where the spray eventually runs cold on us. Evenings where I make Jo and Tigris laugh while Katniss looks on. Her hand in mine at school. The funny cross-eyed pictures we take of ourselves with my camera.

My feelings have had me steamrolling through my days. Until now, what I've forgotten during my island high is that summer is a dead-end. I can't veer from it no matter what I do.

It's June. Four more weeks and I'm out of here.

Haymitch banging on the bathroom door jolts me out of my thoughts. I jump and nearly gag on my toothbrush. It's my last day of school. I'm a mess of excitement and sadness. I'll be free for the next month, but I don't want to be free, not when everyone is preparing to go separate ways without fanfare, knowing they'll be back in the fall.

The hours go by too quickly today. When the final bell rings, Cinna wishes me well and gives me a mockingjay pin as a present. I'll miss him. I'll even miss the familiar trill of Mrs. Trinket and her daily powerwalks through the halls. I'll miss Gale's political rants and his friendly jibes at lunch. I'll miss walking that familiar path home with my girlfriend.

The school throws me a farewell party that afternoon. In the courtyard, Cinna and the other teachers pass out plates of fried fish and cups of mango juice. They play music from a boombox that has seen better decades, and someone initiates a game of soccer. Ever the ceremonious culture, they demand a speech from me. I think they're all stunned when I keep it brief.

A mockingjay swoops in and perches on Katniss's shoulders. She's so beautiful and carefree. Watching her, all I can think is that I want to be part of the reason she'll always look that way.

Fuck. I retreat to the bathroom like a loser and splash icy water on my face to keep from crying. The suffocating hug that I give Katniss when she comes searching for me, inquiring whether I'm okay, dulls the pain. She wipes away a few stray tears that linger at the corners of my eyes and makes a goofy face that I'm able to laugh at.

The walk home is quiet. I don't mind because I doubt that I'd be able to concentrate beyond the drumming of my heartbeat. Our linked hands swing between us, but the movement seems like a buffer. The sun catches those little features I'd first noticed during that infamous cab ride. Her freckles and chapped lips. The same glossy orange polish graces her toenails, which leads me to study the arches of her feet as the hem of her skirt brushes the pavement. My tongue wants to race up those arches.

She wears the corset-style top that I've complimented many times. It's laced tight up the middle. And tucked in the dark hair cascading around her shoulders is that one thin, naughty, hippie braid. I'd smile, maybe tease her by tugging on it, if I weren't so antsy.

Our feet beat out a rhythm on the sand-dusted road. The humidity has taken a turn for the worst, beading sweat across the back of my neck, along the waistband of my jeans, and definitely in the crevices of my palm, where it's pressed against Katniss's skin. But the summer air is still saturated with the perpetual scents of Panem. Salt and orchids. Sunscreen and spicy food.

I'm attuned to lots of things, like the relentless prickles of anticipation and desire in my abdomen. Katniss's breathing thickens and speeds up a little. She feels me peering at her clothes, the way they hug her body, as well as her pretty ankles and delicate wrists. She's aware of what I'm thinking. Somehow, we both know what's going to happen when we get home.

Staring ahead, we begin to walk faster. Not quite a mad rush but not patient either. By the time we reach the cottage, I'm dizzy in a good way. I want to get her inside, and I can tell the feeling is mutual from the way both of our pulses throb in the spot where our fingers are linked. I know Katniss. I know her thoughts and movements, and this dynamic between us, this hyperawareness.

No one is home. During the day, Violet has begun making house calls to the villagers, resuming her role as a local natural healer. It's brought more money into mix, but for the most part people pay her in food. And Haymitch is busy restocking supplies for the cantina. Buttercup is probably hiding under the couch.

Katniss and I climb the porch steps. The door sighs open for us. The quiet continues even as we step into the living room. We stand there, weighing the options, the different available surfaces.

Okay, so maybe my habits haven't fully changed, because I'm ready to spill everything I want to do to her, and how, and where. We turn so our bodies face one another. She brings our joined hands to her mouth and kisses my knuckles, then gives me one silvery look that makes my shorts tighten.

Before we met, sex was never meaningful for her. But in that cove, when it was just her and me, it _was_ meaningful. It was the best night I've ever had, but it was still fast. I want this to be different. I want it to be the kind of moment she's always deserved.

Katniss has no words. She simply releases me and tiptoes backward, then swings around and heads straight for her bedroom. Her hips and skirt do that flouncy thing they're so good at, demanding my full attention. The sheer curtains billow as a hot breeze sweeps into the cottage, and the plants quiver. Arousal claims me from head to fucking toe. Dropping my backpack on the floor, I trail after her.

kpkpkpkpkp

"Like _that_?" I pant, circling my hips.

Katniss whimpers in the affirmative, the sound as thin as a string of thread. Between the sweltering temperature and the friction of our movements, we're sweating as our bodies roll in tandem above the sheets. My arms shake, bracing my upper body while I pin her wrists above her head and slide in and out of her.

This is real. I'm between the cradle of her thighs, the head of my cock popping slowly through her dark, sweet wetness. My mouth descends and slants over hers, and then I gyrate my hips, only to hit a soft spot that makes her yelp in pleasure. Triumphant, I repeat the action, learning about her with each breaking thrust. She enjoys when there's a slight pivot to my movement, right at the end like a surprise. Adding this twist makes the mattress coils bounce, but it also makes her knees quiver.

The force of it pitches her into the bed, but nothing about this is hard or swift. We're liquid. Back and forth. Backward and forward. It's one of my favorite sights, seeing her face like this. Her open lips, the greedy flash of her eyes, the creases across her forehead while I fuck her gently. The moans bubble from her throat, and _I'm_ the one doing this to her. She's mine. I'm hers. There's no one between us anymore.

Our fingers lace together. I need this moment to last. I'm determined to make love to her until she's lost all sense beyond my cock working through her. But I can't take much more. She's too good at this, looping her waist with mine, tightening around me so that I hiss. She's trying to be the giver, but I won't let her. That's my job today, to satisfy her, to give my feelings to her, all of them.

Rocking into her, I prop my tongue against my teeth and concentrate on her reaction. I sink down, putting my weight into it, which spreads her wider. It forces our damp chests to rub together as we trade hot puffs of air.

On a particularly solid thrust, her nails bite into me. I murmur, "Was that...a good one?"

"Uh-huh," she keens.

I chuckle. She sounds overwhelmed. How else can I overwhelm her?

"Tell me...what...to do," I say.

"Love me," she answers.

"Always," I rasp.

But the way her pelvis tilts up hints that she'd like it to be faster. Eventually, I give in. "How 'bout this?" I say, rising on my knees, her legs circling my waist as I shift from long and deep to shallow and quick.

The instant I do, Katniss cries up at the ceiling. "Peeta! There. Fuck me right there."

That's more like it. I nod and grasp her hips, locking her in place as I increase the momentum. Her face thrashes from side to side as if she can't handle it, a line of sweat drawn across her hairline. It's slippery where we're connected and oh, fucking god.

Almost. I need to hold out. She has to be first.

I work us into it, chasing the beautiful noises she makes until it happens. Her teeth grind together. She squeezes my waist as her joints tense.

"Come," I encourage her. "Come loud and deep."

With a shout, she convulses around me, drenching me in her orgasm. My head flies back as I lose myself to it, feeling our muscles twitch together, the flexing sensation drawing me fully out of my skin. Gasping, I land on top of her, collapsing into her arms. For a while, we just lay there, listening to the mockingjays tweet outside the window while Katniss plays with my hair.

Glancing at each other, we giggle. We're exhausted, but I still have plans. I kiss the side of her breast and, in a breathless voice, say, "Again."

kpkpkpkpkp

And again. And again. Each time, it takes me a while to be ready for her, but that afternoon doesn't let up. My body loses track of itself. I can't control what she's done to me, what she brings out in me. I want to know everything.

I relish the sight of Katniss biting into her pillow while her thighs flank my head. My tongue flattens over her opening, then lashes into the wetness, and then rides up the crease to the the tiny center of her, which swells as I draw it between my lips. This is followed by her twisting me onto my back, and the explosive sensation of her own mouth bouncing around me while my hands weave into her hair. I've never done either of those things until her.

Later, my body hovers over hers once more, but I still need help from finishing too soon and have to pause. At her insistence, I bring her leg over my shoulder to test the depths we can reach, and forget it. I nearly die with her.

kpkpkpkpkp

The rest of the month moves fast. I sketch my favorite places to go and all the different ways Katniss smiles. I master local recipes and have a cook-a-thon with Violet, then grow bolder, altering some of the ingredients and testing the outcome on my host family. At every meal, the table is free of tension and bustling with jokes.

Now that Violet knows, Katniss feels more comfortable coming to me once Haymitch is gone for the night. Nevertheless, her mom stays out occasionally, visiting with Greasy Sae and not returning until late. I think Violet leaves for a few hours on purpose. We wouldn't go that far with her in the house, so we make the most of these small windows of privacy.

With the sheets pulled over our heads, we stifle our moans. Sometimes, I'm dangerously loud. One time, she has to clamp her palm over my mouth while she rides me. She hikes her knees up to the sides of my chest, her chest flush against mine and her head buried in the crook of my neck while she muffles the octave of my cursing.

When we're finished, she shifts a bit on top of me, and I misinterpret. "Don't leave," I whisper.

"I'm not going anywhere," she promises with a wicked smile. "I'm staying right _here—_ " she wiggles her hips to emphasize where we're still joined "—to cause all kinds of trouble."

We get better and better at it. I lick around her nipple until she's begging me to suck. She does the same to the tip of my erection. I make her grip the headboard posts. She palms my ass, encouraging me to go quicker. I tug her legs to the end of the mattress, part her thighs, and kneel. She climbs onto my lap. I bend her over. She bends over me.

On the nights when Violet is in bed early or Haymitch has the evening off, we bring blankets to the beach and have sex there. Or we just kiss. Or we merely sleep after losing count of the stars.

kpkpkpkpkp

At the tail end of June, I talk to my dad on the phone. His voice is familiar but distant, like something pulled out of mothballs. I've missed him so much. It's a comfort listening to him while I mope on my bunk, glancing morosely at my packed luggage by the bedroom door.

My brothers get on the line, mostly to grill me about my ex-girlfriend (they heard) and my new girlfriend (I told them in a letter). They start describing the hissy fit Mom went into when she learned what happened with Madge, but then they break off awkwardly. It's weird, but I get the feeling they're hiding something.

I'm dreading having to speak to my mother next, but my dad retrieves the phone instead. This time there's a cautious slant to his voice.

"Peeta, there's something I should tell you," he begins. "Your mother..."

I grip the edge of the bed. "Dad...?"

I picture him in him standing in the bakery, flour dusting his wrists as he arranges and rearranges the stainless steel measuring cups. He does that whenever he's nervous.

My father sighs. "I'd thought to wait until you were home, but I don't want you to arrive to a shock. Your mother and I...we've...that is, we've been having some difficulty lately." My silence makes him chuckle, shakily and without humor. "I suppose some things have changed about you." He clears his throat. "Peeta, your mother...she's moved out, Son."

That announcement drops from his end of the world and lands with a thud into mine. Instantly, I know where this is coming from, more than he can imagine. Guilt punctures my chest. I'd been planning to tell him face-to-face about Mom cheating. But I guess I don't have to.

The Mellark dam bursts. He rehashes the gory details. In a nutshell, he caught my mother. It happened around Christmas time, although he thankfully leaves me in the dark about what exactly he saw. She'd been having an affair for over a year, and my father had had his suspicions early.

After six months of her failing to change her ways, she left. He insists that Mom still loves me, that this isn't about me, that she'll still be there for me.

He's wrong. I know for sure that she won't be around at all. She's not even there to break the news with him, or to defend herself. Because what I think doesn't matter.

I hear the veil of doubt in Dad's tone, but he refuses to let the news do more damage today. He sounds completely wrecked from having to drop this on me, that I can't do it. As shitty as I feel for not outing Mom when I had the chance, what's the point in telling him that I knew about her all along? Dad would understand, but learning that his own kid had to see firsthand what she was doing would hurt him even more. Easing my conscience isn't that important.

There's a pinch of sorrow, yeah, but mostly I'm just relieved that she's gone. Dad says things will be different once I'm back.

All I can say is, "Good."

He tries to coax my feelings out of me, but it's awkward, and I'm too far away. And somehow, it's like we don't have to say much else. I sense us both thinking the same thing: In lots of ways, we've been waiting for this to happen, for her to bail out on us.

It's not like Dad to end on a tragic note, so he asks me about Katniss, and that's when I can't shut up. I tell him that I can't let her go. I don't want it to be over, but I don't know if I can handle the pain of losing her either, being helpless if distance changes us. I've always been a hopeful person, but can I take this chance?

"Oh, Peeta," Dad says after a long pause. "You're not afraid of taking chances anymore. You already took one just going to Panem. You took one dating Madge. No matter who you're with, there's always a risk."

I wonder if he's thinking of Mom. They couldn't make it work even in the same house. There's never a guarantee.

"All you can ever do is try. If it's worth it," he says.

It is, I think to myself. Katniss is worth it.

kpkpkpkpkp

On my last night in Panem, Violet and Haymitch make themselves scarce, with Haymitch off to work and Violet to Sae's house, giving me and Katniss that time again.

I walk into my room and find her waiting there. She stands in front of the window with her back to me, illuminated by the light of a single candle. She's wearing only my white shirt. We watch each other's reflections through the glass as I stop behind her, slide my arms under hers, and begin to unbutton the shirt.

Within minutes, we're moving in the dark.

She arches her back.

"Yes," I pant.

And she moans.

"Yes," I repeat.

She moans so hard for me.

"Yes," I cry out.

The bed sighs as we come.

kpkpkpkpkp

We're up all night. I hold her to my chest, sucking up my tears because it just won't help. But I'll remember this.

And in the morning, we make love again. And I'll remember this.

She stands at the porch, her body wrapped in a blanket, watching the sun rise with me. There it is, lifting, lifting, here, an orange light stretching across our toes and warming them. I'll remember this, too.

A thousand moments surge through me: red birds in flight through dense foliage, a girl tied to a statue, her shackled wrists, this little home, Violet in an apron, Haymitch clapping me on the shoulder, spices, a naked body, Cinna's calm voice, Gale's impassioned comments in class, the weather-beaten and sun-touched faces of the islanders, a bus swerving across the road, dreamers by the sea, sky and palm trees, sheets of color, jumping off a cliff, music, Old Man Sae's guitar and his wife's wrinkled smile, a waterlily pond, the click of my camera, a dandelion seed, a kiss, a dance, a cove.

The light touching her braid. Her feet on my lap. Her smirk as she stole my notebook and made me chase her around the house. The snipping sound of her cutting my hair. Her labored breathing when she taught me to swim. Water dripping from her chin. Her limbs rippling beneath the lagoon surface. The letter _K_ drawn in the sand. A white nightgown billowing like a cloud as she led me secretly to the beach.

Nights. Nightmares.

Pen and paper. Silence.

My name. Words. Love.

I'll remember this.

At breakfast, Violet's eyes shake with sadness, but I grasp her hand to help thwart any tears. Haymitch swallows but keeps the conversion light. Katniss just stares at me from across the table.

When I cut a tiny piece of my pepper, there's a pause. Then we all crack up. The story of my first pepper is legendary in this cottage, so we all replay the whole thing, which leads to more stories about this year. It helps cheer us up.

Every neighbor comes by to wish me well, because on this island the villagers are all family to each other. They grow up together and sing songs and dance together. They raise each other. And when someone who's part of their family leaves, they say goodbye together.

Old Man Sae pats me on the cheeks. "Be a good boy."

Greasy Sae wipes her eyes. "You're going too far."

I think she might be right. I can barely respond around the lump in my throat.

On the porch, Violet gives me a book she made of all the meals we've cooked. She smooths back my hair and then hugs me tight, refusing to let me go. I don't want her to.

"Thank you," she says.

I don't need to ask what for. I know.

Haymitch isn't as sentimental, but his clears his throat, his voice gruff. "I should say something inspirational, but I haven't got your knack." He smiles wryly. "I'll just repeat Violet's words. Thank you."

No. Thank _you_.

"I don't regret a damn thing," he says.

Neither do I. This is home. I'm leaving my home. Again.

He shakes my hand, but I tighten my grip and pull him into a hug. My voice cracks. "I'll miss you, Haymitch."

Sighing, he ruffles the back of my head. "Ah kid...you've got no idea," he mumbles. He separates us, then nudges his chin toward Katniss and speaks quietly. "Don't give up."

I nod. I'll do my best.

He's coming with me to the airport, but Katniss isn't. She and I want to say goodbye in our special place, not in some air-conditioned, white-walled terminal. We spend our last hour at the beach play wrestling on the sand, Katniss blocking my attempts to tickle her feet and retaliating by going after my armpits.

The tide is low. Pink and ivory seashells dot the sand. Katniss and I call a draw. Wiped out, she straddles my lap and rubs her nose against mine.

She's still wearing my white shirt. "You'd better take care of this shirt," I tease, fingering the collar. "It's only on loan."

I wasn't serious, but she sobers and starts fussing with the shirt, smoothing it over repeatedly. "K-keep swimming," she manages. "In th-that lake you talked about. And make sure to...and be careful whenever..."

"Katniss?" I ask, concerned. "Tell me. What is it?"

She glances at the water, then draws a breath that seems to come from a faraway place. "You'll be returning to your friends and going to parties," she says, her words shaking in the breeze. "You will meet other people."

This isn't what I expected. My stomach lurches. "That won't—"

"We'll write, yes. And you will call, I know. But..." She swallows. "You'll see Madge again. And there will be other girls, too. Pretty girls who like you, who are fun to talk to, who'll make you laugh. You'll have new experiences like you did here, moments you won't expect. And if one day—"

"Katniss. Stop."

"I-I will understand, Peeta. You should be happy—"

A sob leaps from her mouth. I grab her face and sweep my thumbs over her cheeks. "This isn't our last kiss."

My lips cover her lips, my tongue tumbling with hers, seeking and finding. The kiss is salty from her tears but nevertheless sweet. With only ten minutes left before the cab will show up, I bury my face in her hair and whisper everything she needs to hear to make her strong. "We have a story," I say. "An American boy who travels to Panem Island and falls for a girl. They met by the sea—"

"They met in a square," she corrects.

"It's still by the sea. Can I finish?"

She chuckles. "I will miss your rants. Never finish them. Never, Peeta."

I kiss her ear. "You know the best part about our story? It's a true one. It's real. It's permanent, no matter what happens next."

"That sounds nice," she realizes. "What does happen next?"

"I don't know, but the sea isn't going anywhere. Some things stay constant. So maybe. Someday..."

"Someday."

"Someday, we'll meet here again. Katniss, I've loved you since before I knew it. There's no way I'll stop now that I _do_ know it."

I'd been forcing myself not to break down until I got on the plane, where no one I care about would see me. Just as I feared, I can't hold back anymore. When I pull back, we're both crying but grinning. My heart ruptures and my throat squeezes, and I'm shattering. But we're grinning. That's a good end.

She presses her three middle fingers to my lips. I kiss them and mouth, _I love you_.

No one ever told me how much willpower it takes to let go. I learn what that's like as I haul myself to my feet and crush her to me, wishing that I could somehow disappear inside her, or just take her with me.

I'll remember this. Her arms, wrapped around me, changing me forever. Her voice, saying that she's mine.

"I'll never forget us," I promise.

I meant it when I said that I won't stop loving her, but she's right. My life will continue, despite my heart being here, despite what I feel. It will continue. If there's anything I've learned this year, it's that I can't control things, or foresee what's around the corner, or who will be standing there.

But there's always hope. So I hold onto that and pretend everything I've told her is a certainty, while she pretends to believe me.

We share one last long look. I walk backward, holding her smile in my head, in my chest, in my whole body, while my feet drag over the sand. The girl that I love seems to know I can't do it, so she blows me another kiss. And turns her back first.

That's the moment I relive on the plane as it speeds over the ocean, as the cluster of islands below gets smaller, as my life there gets smaller and smaller until I can't see it anymore. I close my eyes and replay my last sight of Katniss. I picture her turning away and walking down the shoreline, along the edge of the sea, her footsteps slow but graceful. As if she, like me, has a long way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come cry with me at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katniss's song: "Home" by Gabrielle Aplin.
> 
> Peeta's song: "Big Bad World" by Kodaline.

_Epilogue_

_One Year Later_

_Katniss_

Two children play in the square, giggling as they chase a mockingjay that flaps around their heads. Watching them relaxes me enough that I clear my throat, ready to begin, and focus on the sea of faces before me. My friends. My neighbors. The people of Panem are gathered together as we have been many times before, but this is not a protest. This is a celebration.

They tilt their heads up to where I'm sitting on the stage. They beam, cheeks and noses tinged from the summer sun, which has begun to sink over the horizon. It's sunset. The cords of light bulbs glow above us. The men salute with bottles, while the women wear waterlilies in their hair like me, except mine is orange. The petals' fragrance floats through the air.

The mockingjay perches on the statue of its own likeness—a monument that I once chained myself to, paving the road for this moment. The children's mother corrals them back to their seats. A collective hush settles over the crowd as everyone stares at me, waiting to be told a story.

This is home. As Old Man Sae begins to play his guitar, and my voice joins him, that's what I sing about.

My eyes close. The lyrics I've written are warm in my chest and light on my lips, following the curl and pluck of Sae's fingers. Of all the stories I've told—with my dreamer friends and with my sister—this is the first time I've created something about the place I truly come from.

This world is not an imaginary setting where faeries exist, where wheatfields grow, or where cobblestones cover the ground. Nor am I a fictional heroine. I'm not medieval lady, or mythological goddess, or a girl at a carnival. I've never met a famous poet or been a secret admirer. And I've definitely never wielded a bow—although I plan on learning someday, the way I learned to fish.

In the end, this is Panem. Endless sky, burning sunsets, white sand, and clear waters.

And I'm just me. While I will never stop telling stories—they are a beautiful part of my life—I no longer rely solely on them. They're not my lifeline anymore. I don't always need to be someone else. Especially not today.

Today, I'm exactly who I want to be. Katniss Everdeen. Wild child. Songbird. Activist. Waterlily. Daughter. Niece. Sister. Friend. And so much more.

I'm his. I see him behind my lids. I feel him in the music, in the slant of my voice, because the things he taught me have become the words rising out of me now. I remember him in this song.

Yes. Everyone I care about is on this island, in this room. Even Primrose.

Everyone except one person. The most important one.

kpkpkpkpkp

_Dear Katniss,_

_There's only one way to start this letter: I miss you. I love you._

_I don't know how to feel about being back. I just want to be in Panem, where everything makes sense._

_The night I got home, I kind of panicked. My dad was the same. My brothers were the same, meaning still idiots. Even though Mom isn't here anymore...well, even that feels the same. She was never really here to begin with._

_My dad put up this giant "Welcome Home" sign across the bakery, and my brothers toilet-papered my room, but nothing else was different in the house. Once I cleared the toilet paper, everything was exactly like I left it. The paintbrush and wrestling trophies. My pillows. My notebooks. Everything.  
_

_That's when I freaked out. I've changed, but nothing else has. Standing there, it was like going back in time full throttle. Like the whole year away hadn't happened. It scared the shit out of me._

_I just don't want to forget..._

kpkpkpkpkp

_Dear Katniss,_

_I hope you like these pictures I'm sending you._ _Dad's old camera still works better than anything._

 _It's me and him in the bakery (I seriously thought I'd gotten all the flour out of my hair), my brothers (yeah, they're trying to impress you with their muscles because they think your waterlily picture is hot, but as you can see,_ I'm _the one who has Rye in a headlock), the woods by our house (just thought you'd like that), the lake that I told you about (I swim there a lot), and don't laugh at that one of my bedroom. I tripped over my backpack when I clicked the shutter._

_The last one looks like it's me on the phone with someone else, but it's really us. I'd just dialed your number and heard your sleepy voice answering..._

kpkpkpkpkp

_Dear Katniss,_

_First day of senior year was a little weird. I felt like a foreigner, but I carried the dandelion seed you gave me in my pocket, like I promised..._

_I wish you could meet my friends. Thresh is a great guy, and you'd like his girlfriend Rue..._

_Wrestling is definitely going to happen, but I have to get in shape first..._

kpkpkpkpkp

_Dear Katniss,_

_Alright, alright. I won't get you a laptop or smartphone. I know the house phone works fine, and of course I love our letters, but I just can't help wanting more of you. I know you're scowling right now, but stop it._

_What can I say? I'm greedy. I'm forever greedy when it comes to you...  
_

kpkpkpkpkp

My voice is like a wave rushing across the square. It builds, crescendos, and comes back down to earth. On the last note, it thins out and becomes a gentle lap of water, until it fades altogether.

The crowd bursts into applause. I burst into proud laughter. Old Man Sae enfolds me into a hug and pats my cheek. Cinna winks at me. Greasy Sae blows me and her husband kisses. Gale and Deliah raise a three-fingered salute. Jo and Tigris punch their fists in the air.

Finnick whistles, his green eyes sparkling. We share an easy moment across the square, not spoiled by loss but healed. A friendship that has mended.

Mama dries her tears. Haymitch claps and smiles an "I'll-be-damned" smile.

I'm equally awed. The villagers staged more protests about the fishing permits over this past year. We were relentless, and most times it was dangerous, and each time I made the people I love worry.

Especially Peeta. His father once had to physically restrain him from getting on a plane and flying here to protect me. After that, Peeta became proactive from his home and somehow got a hold of the media's attention. His ceaseless chatter and wordsmith skills brought Panem's efforts into a small spotlight, and at the last protest, camera crews showed up. Unlike the protests that ended in chaos, that final one ended in triumph.

Since the cause had originally been incited by a young and voluntarily mute girl, I became the center of the story. At the same time, I also began writing songs about everything that's happened since I lost Primrose. The little bit of media recognition I'd gained worked in my favor, because a man named Plutarch heard me sing at my uncle's cantina one evening. He'd opened a humble studio on the north shore and thought I might be interested in recording my music there.

It's nothing where I'd have to abandon my life or end up on television. This Plutarch fellow simply envisions me becoming an "indie favorite" with the public. It would mean enough money to sustain my family, to contribute to the island, and to let me stay home. I can do it now that I've graduated. Or I can teach like Cinna. Or I can create my own survival courses for tourists. Or I can do all of it. I have choices, and that's a comforting thought.

Haymitch wraps me in an embrace when I come off the stage. "Not bad for a wild child."

I'm about to pinch him when he teasingly holds up an envelope from District 12. "This came for you."

My heart spins. I snatch it from him. I don't want to leave the party early, but I need Peeta, and I always read his letters alone.

"It's alright," Haymitch says without me having to explain. "I have specific instructions. You're supposed to read it at the beach, at around..." He checks his watch. "Now, actually."

Puzzled over why or how he'd been given instructions, I bolt for the shore. As I run, memories of earlier letters flit through my mind.

kpkpkpkpkp

_Dear Katniss,_

_...and those spices you sent were an amazing surprise. I love them! Dad remembers them from his exchange year too. We've been trying them in a few recipes. It's nice talking to him about Panem. He understands what it was like to live there..._

_He just admitted that he's been thinking about opening a second bakery. He's babbles a lot about "life changes"..._

__I might do this special food management class at night..._ _

kpkpkpkpkp

_Dear Katniss,_

_God, your last letter. It's all your fault that I'm hard while writing this. I want to kiss you so bad, and throw you on my bed, and..._

_You're going to finish me off, sweetheart..._

_And you claim you're not good at saying something._

kpkpkpkpkp

_Dear Katniss,_

_Those song lyrics you wrote were beautiful. I can't wait to hear you sing someday.  
_

kpkpkpkpkp

_Dear Katniss,_

_It makes me so happy to know you liked the grad picture of "your Peeta."_

_That's what I am. I'm yours._

kpkpkpkpkp

I build a fire at the beach. The low tide rocks peacefully into the horizon while the setting sun is a half-disc disappearing beneath the water, its orange reflection rippling across the ocean's surface and tapering to a point like an arrow's head. Around me, pink and yellow bromeliads bloom from the trees.

The hem of my green skirt brushes the sand as I kick off my sandals. I run my hand over Peeta's white shirt. I wore it today, tied it into a knot at my waist, to keep him close to me. I hope it's enough to prepare me for whatever his letter says. My fingers tremble as I stare, terrified, at the envelope with his handwriting on it. It's not merely a feeling that I have. I _know_ he has something important to tell me.

Over time, Peeta did what I predicted he would do. He reconnected with friends. He went to parties. He maintained a friendship with Madge, though he didn't see her often, and I trusted him.

At the same time, he did what _he_ predicted and kept his promise. His heart remained mine alone, never once straying to other people. And my heart has remained his as well. We've been dedicated, persistent, and perhaps simply lucky.

Though we haven't been specific about what will happen between us now that school is over. In his phone calls and letters, I've sensed him considering many things but withholding his thoughts, which is unusual. He's been mysterious about college, about this second bakery idea of his papa's, and about other possibilities.

Peeta has assured me that he's finding a way to bridge the miles between us. He hasn't given me a reason to doubt his love, but love may not be enough, and I've been too cowardly to question or push him. Perhaps I'm about to regret that.

The briny ocean breeze wafts into my nostrils. Dragging my thumb along the envelope's seam, I agonize whether to sit or stand, then set my chin. I'm Katniss Everdeen. I will stand.

_Dear Katniss,_

_Keep standing. Also, p_ _lease don't be afraid to read this. It's me, remember?_

_I'm the one who should be nervous. It's taken me forever to get this letter right. You might think words come easily to me, but they don't where you're concerned. Never where you're concerned. It's impossible to find words that live up to those endless gray eyes of yours and that endless voice.  
_

_I miss your voice all the time, Katniss. Even right after we hang up with each other, I miss it instantly._

_You sang today. I hope you thought of me when you did and felt me there, because I was. I promise._

_In the interest of preserving that promise, I have a proposition for you. You know I came to Panem for a year to have the same experience as my dad. He and I have talked about it a lot, and Katniss? It's the best thing we've ever shared._

_So we thought, why stop there?_

_Keep standing, my love. Read carefully. In the north shore, there's a building off that pedestrian street by the Internet cafe. If you go there, you'll see a sign that says it was bought. You see, my father liked the picture I took of it. It's crazy how a random photo, a shot taken by mistake because my finger slipped, can change the future._

_The building caught his attention more than I expected. Turns out, the second floor is an apartment and the first is exactly the kind of place two Mellarks can sell a few loaves of bread. At least, that's our plan.  
_

_It's dawning on you now, isn't it? Katniss, I've been mulling this over for months, but the choice turned out to be simple. I've already been doing what I want to do my whole life. The bakery's it. There's a second branch ahead for my father and me, and there's no question where it should be. Or where I belong._

_Panem is home. I went there because of my dad. I want to stay there because of me._

_Because of you. You're my home, Katniss. You've been my home since the moment I met you, and I don't want to miss you anymore. I want a bed with you and the ocean with you. I want your arms. I want us. That's what I want.  
_

_I'll dance with you. I'll tell stories with you. I'll fight with you. I'll tease you. I'll make sure you sleep and kiss your stubborn chin when you wake up. I'll grow with you. I'll jump off a thousand cliffs with you._

_Will you allow it?_

_If yes, then turn around._

The letter flutters to the sand. I whirl around, my heart in my throat.

It's that stray, pesky tendril of hair I see first, sticking out from the rest of the windswept blond locks. His silhouette appears next, a dark outline of broad shoulders. As he takes a step forward, his hands in his pockets, the dusky light swims across his face. His smiling face.

Blue eyes, steady and familiar. Full of longing.

Peeta.

I scream. Letting out a prolonged and girlish shriek, I sprint across the distance. He meets me halfway, arms outstretched to catch me as I take a flying leap into the air. I barrel into his chest, my legs entwining around his waist, but the impact sends us plummeting to the ground.

Sprawled across his body, I attack him with my lips, planting kisses all over his jaw. I'm touching him, seeing his smile, hearing his laugh.

"Hey there," Peeta says when I finally pull back.

"Hi," I say, matching his grin.

We gaze at each other for ages. His complexion has lost its sun-kissed Panem glow, but that's no surprise from the the pictures he's sent me. He's as fair as the day I met him, and he's more toned from sports and his country's generous food supply, but he still smells like melted sugar. His hands still know how to hold my hips.

His clothes are new to me. A light blue v-neck, dark grey shorts, and...a necklace. A black leather strap with a tiny jar dangling off the end. The dandelion seed.

"Oh, Katniss..." His gaze drinks me in. He looks like he's about to say something sentimental, but then he plucks my collar. "Nice shirt."

Tears sting my eyes, but I play along. "You can't have it back."

"That's okay," he says sweetly, brushing my cheek with his knuckles. "I've got everything I need now."

I lean into his palm. I just want to hold him. I've yearned for his skin, his warmth. "You're here," I say. "You came back to me."

His free arm wraps around my body, securing me against him while his other hand continues to stroke my face. He smiles as though I should know better. "Let me be clear: There's nowhere else I want to be. I'll always come back to you. I love you." His grip on me tightens. "Say it, Katniss. Tell me."

Words aren't enough to convey how much I want this boy. But I say it anyway, because the words are still true. I press my forehead to his. "Peeta, I love you."

He sighs in bliss and relief. "You sang so beautifully."

I veer up, my hands flat on either side of his head. "You were there?!"

He blushes, guilty. I would have been elated to see him in the audience. He should have told me.

"I'm sorry," he says, reading my expression. "And I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was coming, or about my plans with Dad. I just didn't want to say anything about the bakery until it was for sure. Believe me, I was dying to spill it. And then I got this harebrained idea to make a grand romantic gesture and surprise you, and I wanted our first meeting to be here, alone, but I couldn't get a flight earlier than today, otherwise I would have, you know, done the whole reunion thing first, and then I wouldn't have had to go all cloak-and-dagger and watch you perform from a distance. Anyway, I was stupid."

"You were," I agree. "But I've missed you too much to scold you."

"Don't even get me started on how much I missed you back." He rubs his nose over mine. "Dad's gonna be here in a month, once he's done finishing up some stuff in District 12. I have the apartment above the new bakery, but it's not furnished yet, and besides I'd rather stay with you until then. That is..." Peeta smirks. "I mean, if that's what you want."

His flirting makes me chuckle. "Yes," I answer. "Stay with me."

"Always," he says.

He tries to kiss me. As much as I want that, I jump up and swagger backward. _Come and get it, American boy._

This time, Peeta does. He chases me down the beach and around palm trees until he finally catches my waist, pulling me close, his eyes the only two stars that matter. It's nightfall now. Our lips connect in the dark. The kiss tastes familiar, like sunshine. Like home.

Everyone is in the square celebrating, but we're here, tugging each other's clothes off. They land in a pile on the sand. I straddle him by the fire. My gaze locks onto his as he fills me, trembling and triumphant. We move so deep and quiet, our hips rocking softly. No need to rush.

My hands brace on his shoulders for leverage. His hands wander over my spine. Color flies up Peeta's throat, and his eyes fight to stay open, but he's _there_. We're _there_. He crushes me to him and cries into my mouth. The feeling rushes up my limbs, the sensation akin to leaping into the air.

After our bodies have recovered, Peeta grins and laces his fingers through mine. "Together?"

I nod. "Together."

We stand and race to the ocean, running into the waves, the surf spraying around us. We hoot and dive in like wild ones. And when we pop back up to the surface, our hands still clasped, we can breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swoon. Sigh. Smiles.
> 
> From the beginning, I mentioned that I was once an exchange student. Lots of little memories wove themselves into these chapters, yet this was very much Everlark's tale. I hope you guys enjoyed where the tide took them.
> 
> Many thanks to each of you for reviewing, following, and favoriting. Also to my illustrious betas, Chelzie and Court81981, for their support, perception, and wickedly funny (oftentimes naughty) notes. To Ro Nordmann for the romantic banner. And to Everlart for the beautiful Waterlily fan art that surprised me on tumblr yesterday.
> 
> Most importantly, this story is dedicated to my boy from the Baltic Sea. Thank you for being there when I landed, for inspiring me to live a little wildly, and for that spring afternoon when everything changed.
> 
> I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com, where I'll also be posting details about my novel Touch as time goes by.
> 
> Have a brilliant summer ~HGR


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